 
# Portals: Volume One

### Your Gateway to Science Fiction Romance

## Lyn Brittan

## Marcella Bernard

## P.J. Dean

## Donna S. Frelick

## Laurie A. Green

## Athena Grayson

## SJ Pajonas

## Greta van der Rol

## Veronica Scott

## Sandy Williams

### Contents

About This Collection

Copyright

Vin's Rules by Lyn Brittan

About Vin's Rules

Sample of Vin's Rules

Enemy Within by Marcella Burnard

About Enemy Within

Sample of Enemy Within

The Felig Chronicles by P.J. Dean

About The Felig Chronicles

Sample of The Felig Chronicles

Trouble in Mind by Donna S. Frelick

About Trouble in Mind

Sample of Trouble in Mind

Inherit the Stars by Laurie A. Green

About Inherit the Stars

Sample of Inherit the Stars

Hot Pursuit: Huntress of the Star Empire Episode 1 by Athena Grayson

About Hot Pursuit: Huntress of the Star Empire

Sample of Hot Pursuit: Huntress of the Star Empire

Removed by SJ Pajonas

About Removed

Sample of Removed

Morgan's Choice by Greta van der Rol

About Morgan's Choice

Sample of Morgan's Choice

Mission to Mahjundar by Veronica Scott

About Mission to Mahjundar

Sample of Mission to Mahjundar

Shades of Treason by Sandy Williams

About Shades of Treason

Sample of Shades of Treason

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A Special Thank You

About Science Fiction Romance Brigade

# About This Collection

Welcome! You have arrived at a portal to the galaxy.

Enter, and you'll be introduced by award-winning authors to worlds beyond imagining, with heroes & heroines who dare to take it to the edge and beyond. Count on these adventurers to take their best shot... at their enemies _and_ at romance!

Contains 10 first chapters, with links to purchase any or all of the complete books, should you wish.
All samples in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors' imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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 authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The samples in this collection are used with the permission of the authors and/or publishers. All rights are reserved to the authors and/or publishers.

"Morgan's Choice," Copyright © Greta van der Rol 2011. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Mission to Mahjundar," Copyright © Jean D. Walker 2014. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Removed" Copyright © S. J. Pajonas, Stephanie J. Pajonas, 2013 . All rights reserved. Used by permission by the author.

"Shades of Treason" Copyright © Sandy Williams 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author in "Portals."

"Enemy Within," Copyright © Marcella Burnard 2010. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author and Berkley Sensation.

"Inherit the Stars" Copyright © Laurie A. Green 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Vin's Rules," Copyright © Lyn Brittan 2014. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Trouble in Mind," Copyright © 2016 by Donna S. Frelick. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author and INK'd Press.

"Hot Pursuit," Copyright © 2015 Jen Sokoloski. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"The Felig Chronicles," Copyright © 2010 PJ Dean. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author and publisher.

Cover Artwork: © Jennette Marie Powell Heikes. All images licensed and used with permission

ISBN: 978-1-942583-16-5

 Created with Vellum 

# Vin's Rules by Lyn Brittan
# About Vin's Rules

What happens when the galaxy's playboy gets put on assignments with the hottest law-keeping nerd this side of Jupiter? Hilarious disaster! A steamy 30,000 word Action-Adventure Sci-Fi Romance.

When Vin Dhoma gets trapped in a rough Quadrant of space with regulation-happy Allie Ert'zod, he swears with everything in him to get the hottie to loosen up a bit. Hell, she comes from a family of space pirates! How hard can it be? Well, tough and getting tougher when you add in the little hiccup of having to run for their lives. They've stumbled upon the wrong town and ticked off the wrong people. If they have a shot of getting out of there, it'll take his cockiness and her level head to see them through. And guns. Lots and lots of guns.

# Sample of Vin's Rules

"Have you rechecked your bearings?"

Vin Dhoma swore under his breath then lowered the shuttle somewhere in the 135th Quadrant of this lame-ass Jupiter moon. "I've been doing this a few years, lady."

The raven-haired beauty rolled her eyes as her head snapped up from her omnitablet. No doubt her hand was tired from noting all of his so-called infractions. "You may refer to me as Inspector Ert'zod."

"You sure about that? I thought Ert'zods were fun. Your family has pirates and sheriffs and... well... then there's you. He flipped the dials as they touched the ground. "Why are you so average, Allie Ert'zod?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I'm just saying that—"

"It's against Outer Settlement Agency regulations to..."

_Blah, blah, blah._

Everything was against regulation with this woman. She probably had him down for breathing wrong too. Since they'd started this trip, he'd been told that his shirt was too long, his flying was too fast, his earrings unapproved, and his language a "touch too coarse."

Seriously, what the fuck?

"Are you listening to me, Dhoma?"

"Vin and yes."

No, he wasn't. How could he? All the words blurred together in a long string of: you're doing this wrong, interrupted every three words with quoted regulation. Here he was just about to land a shuttle in the middle of a damn near jungle in a space the size of a bathroom. A little congratulations? Maybe a pat on the back?

"And furthermore..."

Nope.

She could have been his type. Curvy, just like he liked them—built to fill a man's hands. Smart too. Damn, he loved a smart woman. Unfortunately, she was also a smart ass, and that he couldn't deal with.

Fucking shame.

He sighed, lamenting the loss of a good body and a good mind to OSA's Regulation Department.

The vessel landed with the barest of touches. Gentle. Easy. Fantastic.

Inspector Boring cleared her throat. "You forgot to check dash screens 426 and 13 for—"

"Lady, sorry, Inspector Ert'zod, I'm pretty awesome." At her dropping jaw and rising eyebrows, he bit back his grin. "I don't mean that to sound cocky. But I truly am."

"Cocky?"

"Awesome. But I appreciate your attempt at humor. I do. It's a step in the right direction. Now listen, you've got my file. You see that I'm one of the highest rated security guys in the Milky Way."

"The regulations state—"

"Aww, here we go."

Little trooper that she was, Allie Ert'zod ticked off a few more dozen things he'd done wrong. More, she'd stated her case. Again. That all upper level OSA had to be reviewed every few years. No one got to rest on their laurels within The Agency.

"Allie, I'm sorry."

"Allison. I mean, Ert'zod. Just call me Ert'zod. I accept your—"

"I'm sorry that you're not as cool as your father and grandfather. That's really gotta suck. Note that in your little review too."

She hated him. With every fiber of her being, she hated this man. How could one person not take anything seriously?

She'd grown up with fools like this. Now she had to monitor them. And of course, everything had gone wrong from the start. One of the quieter quadrants had suddenly gone too quiet. The government liked things peaceful but no requests for higher judgments on cases? Not a single petition for, well, anything? It wasn't normal. OSA needed someone to check in on it and her most recent case, Vin Dhoma, volunteered.

He'd probably done it to try to shake her off. Good luck. Some familial traits had made it into her. Stick-to-it-ness chief among them. The result was that now she was in the back of beyond with a man too dumb and too cute for his own good.

So, okay, he wasn't dumb.

And yeah, maybe she didn't _hate_ -hate him, but she had to nail this assignment. It was her first proper one, all on her own, and she had a reputation to uphold. Or rather, shoot down.

Whatever.

People had to know that Ert'zods were physically capable of following the rules. She'd perform brilliantly and dared anyone to stop her. Especially not this idiot.

"Why are you glaring at me? What did I do now?" he asked, rising from his seat.

"Uh, well, yes. You're supposed to—sorry—could you stop piddling around while I'm speaking to you? Thank you. Now, you're supposed to wait for contact before stepping out."

The gorgeous blond flashed the whitest teeth she'd ever seen on a man. "Sorry, luv. Order fourteen, subsection nine."

Her fingers flittered across her omnitablet screen to the OSA manual, and she clicked her tongue. Crap, he was right. This wasn't a contact visit or a required one—both of which demanded immediate contact at landing. This fell under a special heading and therefore... "You appear to be correct."

"Nice. How much did it hurt you to admit that, Inspector Ert'zod?"

"Let's just get this over with."

The man's wide, muscled shoulders rumbled beneath his skin-tight blue shirt. He could at least have the good grace to hide his laughter. But no, that didn't seem to be his style. Neither that man nor his choice of clothing hid much.

"You've gotta learn to relax, Allie. Tell you what. I'm going to check this place out. See what's up. You stay here. Watch some funny programs on your omnitablet and try to be in a better mood when I return. Basically, do anything other than being you."

"My job is to monitor. I go where you go."

He raked his hands over his cropped hair and shook his head. "Too dangerous. I came here thinking to scare you off."

"I knew it!"

"But... hey... but, since you had the nerve to stick around—and massive points for that—I need to keep you safe."

"I can protect myself, Dhoma."

"Vin." He pinched the bridge of his nose and held up a hand in surrender. "There's a good chance you'll see some unregulated stuff."

"I highly doubt there's anything worse out there than you in here."

"Look at you with another joke. Fun, isn't it? And lady, for both our sakes, I hope you're right."

Drop into the Outer Settlement Agency. You can start with any book! OSA hires hunky soldiers and dark pirates, serious doctors and ridiculous CEOs. Hey, the Milky Way is ours. Might as well make it awesome. Visit the website for a **FREE** Outer Settlement Agency Short Story and a downloadable series guide!

You can find out where to by _Vin's Rules_here.

Lyn Brittan is an "oh, no she didn't," Action Adventure Romance author who writes strong women and the heroes who love them. Her Romantic Suspense series, The Mercenaries of Fortune, has landed her on the USA Today Bestseller list and she won two Galaxy Awards for her Sci-Fi Romance series, The Outer Settlement Agency. Book Riot and TwinjaBooks have both placed her Steampunk Mystery novel, _The Clocks of London_ , on Speculative Fiction must read lists. You can find more about Lyn here:

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# Enemy Within by Marcella Burnard

# About Enemy Within

Enemy Within is an award-winning, action-packed science fiction romance novel 90,000 words long. Sexy but not explicit.

After a stint in an alien prison followed by a torpedoed military career, Captain Ari Idylle has to wonder why she even bothered to survive. Stripped of command and banished to her father's scientific expedition to finish a PhD she doesn't want, Ari never planned to languish quietly behind a desk. She wasn't built for it, either. But when pirates commandeer her father's ship, Ari once again becomes a prisoner—this time of pirate leader Cullin Seaghdh, who may not be at all who he pretends to be. As far as Cullin is concerned, the same goes for Ari.

* * *

Ari's past association with aliens puts her dead center in Cullin's sights. If she hasn't been brainwashed and returned as a spy, then she must be part of a traitorous alliance endangering billions of lives. He can't afford the desire she fires within him. His mission comes first: that he stop at nothing, including destroying her, to uncover the truth of _her_ mission.

# Sample of Enemy Within

Sun glinting off the barrel of a gun stopped Captain Ari Idylle dead in her tracks. She cursed under her breath. A perimeter guard? Three Hells. No one on her father's science expedition knew how to stand guard like that. She eased off the trail, shifting her thought processes from research scientist to military operative.

Three short, insistent beeps startled her, kicking her heart into high gear before she realized it was the guard's ident badge transmitting.

"Captain," the guard muttered. "Incoming."

"Affirmative. Scanning."

She didn't recognize the voices of the men tracking and possibly trying to capture her. That meant someone else controlled her father's ship.

Sucking in an alarmed breath, Ari shucked her backpack and jacket. Draping the coat around the pack of carefully stowed viral specimens, she backed up as the shimmer of a teleport beam locked onto the ship's badge pinned to her jacket. The bag and coat vanished. She took to her heels, recalling every ounce of training she'd ever had, and slipped into the cool forest.

What had happened? She'd left her father and his four crew members cataloguing botanical oddities two days ago. Fear squeezed the breath from her. Did her father and the rest of the crew still live?

She halted and listened. Nothing. It didn't mean that she wasn't being tracked. Only that she couldn't hear anyone tracking her. She swore again and angled back to the ship, sliding between massive, thorny tree trunks. Whoever these people were, they knew she'd have to get close enough to assess the situation.

Breathing hard, she scaled a rocky, fern-studded rise and lay belly down in the brown and red fronds. The sun sat midway down the sky. She had four or five hours of light left. Ari fished for her binocs, parted the ferns, and peered into the clearing where the _Sen Ekir_ sat, hatch open, equipment and specimens still sitting in the shadow of the ship's belly. Except for the absence of scientists, the scene looked so normal she could almost believe she'd imagined a stranger's voice answering to 'Captain'.

Another glint of sunlight on metal and she suddenly saw the man stationed in the bushes opposite the hatch. A sniper. Spawn of a Myallki bitch. Who the hells were these guys, and what did they want with a science ship? She put the binoculars down, careful to avoid any telltale flash of light on glass. She drew her little snub-nosed pistol and desperately wished for an assault rifle and scope. Her tiny, short-range gun was useless against snipers, but Armada Command had taken her guns when they'd taken her command and sent her on a forced sabbatical.

She let the ferns slide upright in front of her and blew out a shaky breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She keyed the transponder embedded in the skin behind her left ear.

" _Sen Ekir. Sen Ekir_ , come in."

"Well, well, well," a masculine voice drawled. "If it isn't our wayward scientist. Your father's worried about you."

"Identify," she demanded, ignoring the sudden hope speeding her pulse. Just because he'd mentioned her father didn't mean he was alive.

"Why don't you come on down and find out?"

"Ident."

"What do you want?" he countered, his melodic voice dropping into a coaxing, seductive tone that sent a shiver through her.

Ari swallowed hard. She'd just placed his musical accent. He was Okkarian. Had he proven that the mythical voice talents of his race were fact? She shook off the thought and wiped a hand over her face.

"I want a Wrate Leaf burger, a nice char on the outside, the inside still white and tender. With real guacamole, not that crap they make in the chem lab on Rackora. And an ice-cold pint of the darkest Porter this side of the Three Hells," she said.

Silence.

"I'll settle for my father on the squawk."

The man laughed softly. "Alexandria Rose Idylle. I'd been told you don't have a sense of humor."

"You have me at a disadvantage," she noted.

"I like it that way," he said in a whisper thick with innuendo. "Stand by."

Blotting sweat from her forehead, she sighed. She still didn't know anything she could use.

"Alex?"

Her breath caught. "Dad. Status."

Her father's laugh sounded forced. "Screwed six ways to Sunday. The ship's been commandeered. The four of them caught us unaware. No one takes science ships. We . . ."

"Casualties?" Ari smiled. Trust Dad to tell her how many bogeys she had to face.

"None."

"Repairs?"

"Complete. Except that someone's scrambled my command codes. What in the Three Hells were you thinking, locking me out of my own ship, Alex?"

She didn't answer. They both knew what she'd been thinking, that she couldn't trust anyone farther than she could throw the _Sen Ekir_.

"SOP, Dad," she growled. "Could we put a cap on the trade secrets, please?"

The captain's voice cut off anything her father might have said. "You know what I want you to know, now. So how about we talk trade?"

And he knew far more than she wanted him to know. She whispered a curse. She shouldn't have bothered. Thanks to the damned transponder, he heard.

"You want the code fixes," Ari surmised.

"No," he said, relish in his tone. "You. In trade for your father's life, all their lives."

Dismay drove ice through her. She shivered. He wanted her? Why? She shoved speculation aside. First things first.

"Secure the crew and my father off ship," she countered. "I'll give you the decode."

"You. Or they die."

She rested her forehead on her arms. Damn it. She should have known that half a dozen different enemy governments and criminal organizations would come looking for her. She'd been captured and imprisoned by the Chekydran. Humanoids in Chekydran captivity didn't live long, but she'd survived. Her own government kept asking how. Why shouldn't everyone else? Who was the pirate who'd taken her father's ship working for? Shaking her head, she swore again. Her friends and family were in danger because of her. The captain had her by the short hairs and he knew it.

"I'll take your answer, now. And your weapon. Not necessarily in that order."

Ari heard the click of a safety being cycled off a gun. Then she realized. She hadn't heard him via her transponder. She'd heard him with her ears. Damn it all, he'd used the distraction of her father to get the drop on her. And she'd let him. She rolled over in a flash, bringing her gun to bear, and stared up the barrel of a slim-line Autolyte 49-G modified assault rifle. Illegal. Highly illegal.

Golden eyes glared down the barrel at her. Unruly chestnut hair fell across his forehead. He was tall, his body lithe with a hint of long, lean muscle beneath bloodstained, ripped, and singed freighter-brown fatigues. She noted visible bruising on one prominent cheekbone and the shadow of a beard on the carved plains of cheek and jaw. The arrogance, intellect, and skillfully masked pain in his face tripped her internal alarms.

The man wasn't simply dangerous. He was a weapon. A lethal, tempered work of art.

"Give me the gun," he commanded, edging forward and kicking her booted foot out of his way.

Her grip sagged, and Ari belatedly registered the thread of power he'd tucked into his order. Fear gripped her as she fought the compulsion to obey and failed.

He took the pistol from her limp hand. "Get up."

No ring of control in that instruction. She rose, watching for any lapse of attention, any mistake she could turn to her advantage. He didn't make any.

"Hands on top of your head," he commanded. "Lace your fingers. Turn around. You wouldn't be hiding anything from me, now would you?"

He sounded hopeful. She braced herself, but his pat down was swift, efficient, and thoroughly professional.

"Turrel. Secure. Inform Daddy his little girl's coming home."

"Aye, Captain."

"A Wrate Leaf burger?" the captain said, amusement in his tone. "If you're a scientist, I'm the Ykktyryk king."

_Too few teeth and definitely not reptilian_. Ari bit her tongue to keep from saying it aloud.

"You can put your hands down. Turn around," he ordered. "Slowly."

When she glanced at him, he gestured her down the hill with a jerk of the rifle. She trudged past him. He grabbed a handful of her shirt and rested the barrel of the rifle against her back. Steering her by the scruff of the neck and the pressure of the gun, he ushered her toward the ship. They passed his perimeter guard.

She frowned and looked long at the guard's blue-black face. Chilly violet eyes watched her pass. A Shlovkur. Official word had it that a race-specific plague had exterminated the entire population. Interesting. Almost as interesting as the fresh blood on the man's face and the fact that when he fell in behind them, he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. They feared someone, or something, other than her.

She felt marginally brighter.

If they were on the run, how had they gotten to the tiny world her father and his crew had been investigating for the past five years? A ship would have set off the sensor array alarms, unless they'd set down outside of range. Possible, but a damned long walk. And from what she'd seen of the Shlovkur's injuries, if they'd had a ship, they'd either been cast away or they'd crashed. Either scenario could explain why they'd commandeered a vessel with no weapons.

Despite the muzzle bruising her right kidney, Ari stopped walking at the ship's hatch and turned her head. "Take me in via cargo, straight to decontamination," she said. "I've been mining specimens for the past two days."

"Your beam system didn't issue a decon alert," he countered, but he didn't shove her up the ramp.

Ah. The first useful tidbit of information about her mystery captor. No science background and no experience with science ship protocols. She shrugged. "I'm fine with gambling the lives of your remaining, injured crew if you are. A quarantine lockdown would strand your people in the cockpit. Medical is accessible from there, but I'm betting you don't have anyone trained in anything but combat first aid."

He swore and wrenched her off the ramp. She stumbled. He let her get her footing. She marched into the cargo bay still filled with half-finished experiments and crates of samples waiting to be sealed. Near the doors to the rest of the ship, her father and his crew sat, hands and feet bound, under armed guard. She glanced at them but didn't stop. Delaying decontamination could be fatal.

"Ari!" Jayleia, her father's xenobio tech cried, stark relief in her voice.

Ari met the young woman's gaze.

Jay flushed. "I'm sorry."

The young guard with red blond hair looked from one to the other, apparently feeling some deeper message passing between the two of them.

"It's okay," Ari said. Jayleia's people trained their women to be warriors, but Jay had chosen to reject the path laid out by her mother's family. She'd chosen a life of science. Ari gathered that her friend felt responsible for the hijackers' incursion.

Ari offered Jayleia a smile as she keyed open the decontamination unit and stepped inside. Maybe between the two of them, they could take back the ship after they'd cleaned up any stray pathogens.

"You're next in decontamination," she said to the captain.

He arched an eyebrow but lowered the rifle and nodded. Good. She wouldn't have to argue the point. He'd touched her. If she'd picked up a bug, so had he. As the decon door shut and the pulses of energy and antimicrobial-treated water saturated her, she sighed. The pirates had been tramping all over the ship, and their captain had proven he didn't understand decontamination protocols. Those men had made the ship a plague carrier. Without some drastic measures, they'd be shot out of the sky of any inhabited world or station they tried to approach.

The system cycled down. She stripped. At least she had access to sterile clothes just outside the door. A chime and the system cycled back on, the medicated water stinging in the cuts and scrapes she'd acquired. When the spray shut off, she wrung the water out of her hair and waited for the water recycle to suck the moisture from her body. She shoved every last scrap of clothing into the laundry bin and slapped open the door.

"Go," she said to the captain as she accessed the lockers.

"Don't let her catch you trying to get an eyeful," Pietre, her father's second in command said. "The Ice Princess doesn't like it."

Ari sighed. _Ice Princess_. Didn't Pietre realize she'd been forced to make the words true while the Chekydran held her? Ari shook off a sense of loss and glanced around at the surprised and riveted stares.

The captain swept his appreciative gaze up her body to meet her eye. A tingle followed the path of his stare as if he'd done far more than stroke her with a look. Swallowing a curse, Ari stepped into and fastened a pair of fatigue pants.

"Jilted lover?" the captain asked, nodding at Pietre.

She snorted and jerked a shirt over her head. "History? Yes. Lovers? Hell, no."

"Alexandria!" her father barked.

For a moment, she wilted, still a little girl desperately wanting Daddy's approval and never getting it. She clenched her teeth and, yanking the rest of her clothing into place, slammed the locker door on her reaction.

She turned on the pirate captain and snapped, "Decon."

He ignored her in favor of glaring at Pietre and her father.

"Put them off," the captain ordered.

One of the men heaved Pietre toward the open cargo door. Pietre stumbled and fell, cursing. "You're going to maroon us because of her? I always knew she was going to get us killed."

"No," Ari snapped, spinning on the captain, her hands balled into fists.

"Another word out of you and I'll maroon everything but your tongue." Palpable menace radiated from him as he stared down at Pietre.

Ari shivered at the deadly earnest tone of his voice and at the power he'd twined into the words. The force of it hadn't been turned upon her, but she could still feel the coercion rippling through her head. _Silence,_ it urged.

The captain turned his gaze upon her.

Something in the depths of his golden eyes shot heat straight through her body, startling her. She stomped on the sensation. The man could manipulate her with that voice talent. He had already. She would not hand him yet another advantage over her.

"You give orders like you forget you're not in command," he observed, his tone a silken caress.

Anger burned the back of her throat when she had to suppress a sensual shudder. "I'm not in command, yet."

Humor flashed briefly in his eyes before his face darkened. "Are you challenging me?"

Hesitating, she raked him with a glance. He sounded eager. He outweighed her by half and every last bit of it was muscle. His reach exceeded hers, but she could get around that. Maybe. What would he demand of her if she couldn't? Unbidden, the image of those strong arms wrapped around her flooded her internal field of vision. A rush of weight and heat pooled in her abdomen. Ari backed away a step, disarmed by the sensation.

"Got a name?" she forced herself to ask. Her voice sounded rough to her ear.

"Cullin Seaghdh, at your service."

"Shaw?"

"Close enough. Your language doesn't use the same set of sounds."

"All right, Cullin Seaghdh," Ari said. "I'm not the one stealing someone else's ship and threatening to maroon her crew. You challenged me. So let's . . ."

"Choose your weapon," he commanded.

She blinked. He'd pounced on her use of the word "challenged." What trap had she walked into? "You can't be serious."

"Alex, I forbid . . . Oof!"

A glance assured her that her father had damaged nothing more than his pride by being shoved into a bulkhead by one of Seaghdh's goons. "No one gets left," she said.

"Not that long ago, you wanted the scientists secured off ship," he noted, his voice again threaded with power that brushed against her in lush promise.

She sucked in a slow breath as goose bumps rose on her arms. Damn, he was deliberately using his racial voice talent to distract her. It pissed her off no end to have to fight for concentration. More than that. He was using his talent to break her open, to pry apart her defenses and lay her bare. It was wrecking her control, and he had no idea how dangerous that made her.

"If they stay, I stay," she gritted.

"No."

"Then no one gets left."

"You seem to forget who has the ship and the guns."

"Threatening to hurt me won't get you anywhere," she said. "If you harm them or leave them behind, you lose your leverage."

"Oh, I don't think so," Seaghdh countered. "You don't seem to lack imagination, and you obviously understand persuasion. We both know these people aren't your sole weakness."

Ari did not want to discuss weaknesses while goose bumps still prickled her body. She commanded the sharpest Prowler crew in the . . . No. She used to command the best Prowler crew in the Armada. That had been taken from her. Now she was in limbo, nothing more than an adult child who disappointed her father at every turn. The thought laced pain through her chest.

She glanced down, expecting to see that Seaghdh had shot her. He hadn't. It wasn't much comfort. She blew out a shallow breath. She desperately needed options.

"Cycle through decontamination, Seaghdh," she said. "Then . . ."

"Losing your nerve?"

"You're on the run with an exhausted and injured crew. You need off this world. Just so happens we're done here and it suits me to lift anyway. I'll cooperate. We lift with everyone and I take you to the nearest neutral . . ."

"Choose. A. Weapon."

Thrice-damned, single-minded bastard wanted a fight? Fine. "I win, we lift with everyone?"

"Yes."

"Alive."

He grinned. "Yes."

"Energy blade."

Seaghdh scanned the cargo bay where she'd laid down a practice floor so many years ago when her father had first gotten the ship and made it clear he'd wanted her aboard. Seaghdh nodded. "Energy blade."

His grin widened, and Ari realized she'd gone still at the apprehension prickling through her. She hadn't expected such ready acceptance. Energy blades weren't exactly common. They were relics, really, and the skill required to use them relegated to little more than an unpopular sport. He could only have learned one place. The same place she had, at a military academy, where the Art of the Blade was valued for the discipline it instilled. Cursing, she strode to the equipment locker, opened it, and threw a shielded jacket at him.Why wouldn't he go through decontamination? Not that it mattered, considering the fact that the ship itself needed to be sterilized. Still. What did he have to gain by refusing?

"Federated Worlds Regs?" he drawled, confirming her fear that he knew more than which end of the weapon to hold.

"Sure." Three touches to the jacket or one solid hit to the tiny heart symbol on the left breast. She could do this. Couldn't she?

"Too late to pretend you don't know your way around a blade grid," he chided. "We both know you're no scientist. Military, maybe."

"You obviously don't know as much as you think you do," Jayleia shot. Her attempt at an iron tone wobbled. "Ari holds a master's in xenonanobiology. Those samples she tricked you into transporting aboard are her PhD thesis."

"Oversharing, Jay," Ari sang through a tight smile as she donned her jacket.

The younger woman flushed again, but anger and determination sparkled in her eyes. By the Twelve Gods, Ari hoped she wasn't inspiring her father's crew with this idiotic display of bravado.

Seaghdh plucked the weapon's locker key from her fingers, his eyes dancing with suppressed mirth. He handed the key to one of his men with a flourish. The man opened the locker, zeroed in on the best blade in the collection and handed it to Seaghdh. He grabbed the most ragged, beat-up hilt and brought it to Ari.

Seaghdh tested the blade in his hand and glanced in appreciation at her father. "This is a fine weapon."

She swallowed a laugh. Bless her father's stony countenance. Ari trusted only she could see the confusion in his eyes. He couldn't work out why Seaghdh was complimenting him on the weight and balance of a competition-grade energy blade that belonged to her.

"That's . . ." Pietre began.

"Shut it," Ari commanded, not wanting Seaghdh tipped off to the fact that she had a competition ranking. If the man was any good at all, he'd figure it out the moment they crossed blades.

"I hope he skewers you," Pietre snarled.

"Pietre!" her father snapped.

The sound of a pistol being whipped from a holster drowned out anything else her father might have said. Ari saw the gun Seaghdh had taken from her pointed at Pietre's face. She raised an eyebrow at Seaghdh, silently urging him to pretend that neither of them noticed the stain of rage in her cheeks. He studied her as she sealed her jacket. What the Three Hells had she let him see in her to make him rise to her defense like this?

"Why don't I kill him for you?"

She glanced at Pietre and for a long, pleasurable moment contemplated agreeing. The thunderous expression on her father's face drained her.

"If you're in the trouble I think you are," she said, accepting the ratty but oh-so-comfortable hilt of her practice blade from Seaghdh's man, "you're going to need all the ammo in that pistol."

Seaghdh laughed and holstered the weapon. "You're a right thoughtful girl, Alexandria Rose Idylle. Ah. A-R-I. A ready-made nickname, courtesy of boot camp?"

"Congratulations." Damned pirate. Should have known he'd guess right.

"Clear the floor," Seaghdh commanded and gestured at her father's crew. "At the slightest sound from them, shoot her." He pointed at Jayleia.

Ari caught in a breath, but didn't dare protest as the Shlovkur closed in beside the tech. She stared at Jayleia's suddenly pale face and tasted the first bitter edge of panic.

"Care to concede?" Seaghdh murmured at her shoulder.

Breathing too quickly, her heart beating too hard, she stumbled into the center of the cargo bay and took position on her end of the floor. Seaghdh sauntered into the grid, his sharp gaze taking in every thought plodding through her head and across her face.

"You know how to use that thing?" He nodded at the energy blade in her hand.

She swallowed outrage and awarded him a tight smile. "I am proficient."

He grinned. "Ever fight for your life?"

"No," she said, pleased her tone remained steady.

His smile deepened. "Then this isn't so different. We aren't fighting for your life, are we? We're fighting for theirs." He gestured at the knot of scientists.

Fear gripped her. She'd won matches. She had awards. She practiced religiously. Sure, she'd fought Chekydran with the might of an Armada Prowler at her disposal. But energy blade combat had always been a highly regulated sport, a dance with specific choreography designed to minimize injury. She'd never dueled for anything of more value than a bit of metal or a piece of paper to hang on her office wall. Swallowing hard, she eased into guard position.

Taking his time, he matched her stance. Ari did her best not to frown at the avid smiles on his men's faces or at the effortless way he sank into position and crossed his blade with hers.

Her mind raced. She had to find a way to keep everyone alive. No matter the cost.

Captain Cullin Seaghdh tapped her blade with his, bringing her attention back to her predicament and his damnably cocky grin.

"You're willing to trade your life for theirs?" he asked, his question pitched for her ears only, his smile gone and his gaze searching.

Troubled, she shook her head. "Are you intimating I have a choice?"

"Then fight."

A friend's husband served two tours of duty in the Middle East. When he returned, he could sleep only in the floor of the bathroom with the shower running. That image of a sense of safety so shattered stabbed me through the heart and haunted me. (He's recovered and well, I promise!) I wondered how someone went about rebuilding themselves after something like that. Ari Idylle strode out of my subconscious to show me how she intended to heal herself. Cullin Seaghdh came forward to ruin her plans. Lucky me.

You can find out where to buy _Enemy Within_ here.

Marcella Burnard graduated from Cornish College of the Arts with a degree in acting. She writes science fiction romance for Berkley Sensation. Her first book, Enemy Within won the Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice award for Best Futuristic of 2010. The second book in the series, Enemy Games, released on May 3, 2011. An erotica novella, Enemy Mine, set in the same world as the novels was released as an e-special edition by Berkley in April 2012. Emissary, a sword and sorcery short story released in the two volume Thunder on the Battlefield Anthology in the second half of 2013. Nightmare Ink, an Urban Fantasy novel from Intermix came out in April of 2014 and the second in that Living Ink series, Bound by Ink, came out in November 2014. She lives aboard a sailboat in Seattle where she and her husband are outnumbered by cats. You can find out more about Marcella and her books here:

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# The Felig Chronicles by P.J. Dean

# About The Felig Chronicles

In the aftermath of a devastating alien invasion of Earth, a crew of humans determined to fight back has found one last refuge--a fortified compound in upstate NY. This colorful group comes from all walks of life... and not all the battles take place outside the compound. Yes, they're dedicated to their mission, but when they could die tomorrow, why not enjoy life while they can?

# Sample of The Felig Chronicles

Tina contemplated the .357 magnum. She lobbed it from one hand to another as she sat on the closet floor in the den. It would be so easy. But she'd have to take Matilda with her. Couldn't leave her here alone. Who'd care for her? Pills for her Matty. Nothing violent. As for herself, she could just slip the muzzle between her lips or put it to her temple. _BAM!_ She took a mental inventory of her life. Two less black females on Earth would not be missed. They had acquaintances, but few real friends. Maybe two. No family members who cared. Tina had noticed years earlier, before the madness, that supposed friends had pulled back as her mom's ailments had advanced. Unable to party hearty at a moment's notice, she had begun to receive fewer invitations. People who used to seek her out had stopped calling. They were afraid she deduced. Afraid they would be called on to possibly assist her with Matty. Afraid that illness would _rub off_ on them.

Whatever. It all paled in comparison to what was going around now. At the age of thirty-nine and with the way the world had turned out, she was ready to call it a life. But was a magnum a tad much? A smaller caliber would suffice. The magnum would be overkill. "Overkill," she said into the dark. She wiped the tears from her eyes and chuckled. She returned the weapon to the holster under her right arm.

"Tina?" called a weak voice from the condo's living room.

"Yes, Mama? Be right there. You okay?" She finished drying her eyes, then ran her hands through her chin-length, wiry, dark-brown spirals. She scrambled to her feet and exited their prescribed hiding place. Tina rushed into the IKEA-furnished living room. Matty liked blond woods. "Hard to hear you above the air conditioner."

Matilda had struggled out of her chair and was working her way toward the kitchen with her walker. "Time for eats, honey. I was going to ask you what you wanted."

"Mama!" Tina put her arms around Matilda, hugged her and kissed her forehead. "How many times have I told you to stay out of the kitchen? You are in no condition to hover over burners. I'll fix dinner. All your favorites. Tonight's mulligatawny stew over rice, with cornbread. Peach pie. Umm right?"

Matilda rimmed her lips with her tongue. "With chocolate ice cream?"

"With whatever you want, Mom. Let me help you to the table." She guided Matilda over to her well-cushioned dining chair and arranged her in it.

The woman grabbed her hand and kissed it. "I love you, sweetie."

"I love you, too, Mom. I'll bring you a glass of water to take with your medicine while I heat up the food."

"Fine. Some ginger ale, too. I'll turn on the news." Matilda picked up the remote and clicked on CNN. The sudden rat-tat-tat of gunfire punctuated the early evening.

"Was that the TV or outside, Mom?" Tina poked her head over the swinging doors leading into the kitchen.

"Damned if I know."

Their cat, Tatum, ran to join them, the sound too alarming for him.

Tina set the beverages on the table and doled out Matilda's meds. She observed her mother. Bad luck had perched on this good woman's shoulder and had decided it liked the view. Fate never rushed. Why should it? It knows it's gonna get you in the end.

Only sixty-seven years of age, her mother looked years older. Matilda had been a damned good nurse a scant fifteen years before. Her conscientiousness had all but killed her.

Possessing that Protestant work ethic—even though she was Catholic—rarely had she missed work. But being tired and rundown did not mix with a rheumatic heart. An infected valve had led to emergency surgery. A surgery that had both saved and doomed her. Blood used during the operation had been tainted with hepatitis C. And Matilda had been fighting the good fight ever since.

Tina had watched her mom morph from an active, fearless woman into one who could remain in her room for days on end if allowed. As time had passed, Matilda had become more reclusive. Years of disease, harsh medicines, disinterested physicians and a lack of control over her own life had left her depressed and apprehensive.

Gunfire erupted again. Matilda jumped.

"That was outside, this time." Instinctively, Tina broke out the AK-47 that she kept taped under her side of the table and went to the window.

"Tina! Honey! Be careful." Matilda shifted stiffly in her chair. "It's not the same anymore."

How true, Tina mused as she parted the curtain slightly with the tip of the gun.

Two black guys were running down the deserted street, shooting randomly. Behind them was a dark SUV, beams on high, another guy riding shotgun hung out the passenger window.

No, it was not the same anymore. Not since the Felig had come.

_The fuckin' Felig,_ mouthed Tina.

On New Year's Day at the start of the millennium, giant orbs of fire had rained down on Earth. Not long after the event, an alien presence emerged from the burned out spheres. For the last few years, they had decimated the human race. They had never declared their purpose, nor had they demanded to see world leaders. They simply took.

The Felig were able to shapeshift and render themselves invisible. No one knew how to spot one, or stop one, because no one had ever survived an encounter. A Felig could look like your best friend or your lover because it had just assimilated them. Once close enough, it absorbed you. This total ignorance of a predator's M.O. had launched the world's population into permanent mass paranoia.

"It's just another patrol, Mama. Let's eat."

To find out more about this book visit PJ's website.

My Sci-fi series THE FELIG CHRONICLES has African-American Tina Cain as the main character. She is a grown woman with responsibilities and issues. While facing her problems, she meets security expert, Nate Lowe. They join together, at first for business, then for love, as they battle the Earth-invading Felig. I began writing this series 7 years ago. Way before the "diversity" push. I never thought it "innovative" to write an African-American heroine, or an interracial couple. It's not "cutting edge. It's not a "trend." It's common sense. I read lots of Sci-fi/paranormal romance and I was not seeing any deeply-melanated heroines among the usual "ready to rumble" leather-wearing, edged-instrument/ray gun wielding teen heroine. Did authors/publishers think such folk would not survive an apocalypse/alien invasion? So, I did what author Toni Morrison said do. I wrote it myself. I'm happy. My publisher must be happy because book 5 in the series comes out April 1st. So when an "industry expert" tells you that diverse romance in any genre by a "diverse" author does not have an audience. Period. Just yawn. Tell 'em they're pitching it wrong. Period.

To find out more about this book visit PJ's website.

About PJ:

I am an only child raised by a single mom when it just was not done! I saw my father's family but I was raised in the embrace of my mother's colorful family. A jazz drummer. A trucker. Two WWII vets and other active duty family members. A numbers' runner. A former flapper. An aspiring opera singer. A few gay uncles and aunts. All mixed in with staunchly independent women and men who took no stuff from anyone. We had neighbors who people nowadays would label as people of "questionable repute." I loved every minute of it. My eyes and ears soaked it up. They all forged me in the fire of their many-faceted hearts. I thank everyone of them. Watch the HBO film _Lackawanna Blues_. The life the little boy leads in that film is the closest you'll come to what mine was like. I wouldn't change a second of it. I hope I'm doing them proud.

You can find out more about PJ here:

Blog Website Get a signed digital edition

Twitter: @PJDeanwriter

Facebook: P. J. Dean fan page

# Trouble in Mind by Donna S. Frelick

# About Trouble in Mind

_P ublishers Weekly_ says Trouble in Mind "skillfully blends alien abduction conspiracies, political intrigue, space battles, and epic romance into a psychic police procedural that also packs an emotional punch." _RT Book Reviews_ 4 Stars. HOT. 116,172 words.

**_S he couldn't get him out of her mind—_**

**_and that's when the trouble started._**

* * *

FBI Special Agent Alana Matheson is good at her job, despite a past that would make even a seasoned agent cringe. She has no time for the outside help the victim's family has brought in on a kidnapping case, no matter how good-looking he is.

* * *

But galactic tracker Gabriel Cruz is no ordinary private investigator, and the skills he brings to the job will save both their lives. Because Lana and Gabriel are not the only ones seeking an unusual little boy and his mother. Their rivals in the chase are not of this world, and only an alliance built on the bonds of love can ensure that Lana and Gabriel beat the alien hunters to their prey.

# Sample of Trouble in Mind

**N ashville, Tennessee, Earth, Sector Three**

A phone buzzed, intruding in the intimacy of the darkened living room. Alana struggled to escape the languid embrace of her companion. "That's mine."

"Don't answer it." Mark's voice was a breathy murmur in her ear.

"You know I have to." She wriggled in his grasp. "I'm on call this weekend."

"Oh, hell." He exhaled, letting her go. "Probably just some 7-11 robbery that skipped over the state line."

She reached for the cell, confirmed the display read "FBI Nashville." "Matheson."

"Hey, Lana, this is Cheryl in Dispatch. I've got Sheriff Thomas Radford of Cheatham County on the line. Says he has a kidnapping."

Lana felt a swift kick of adrenaline as she went into professional mode. "Put him through." She made signs for a pencil and paper. Mark grabbed them off the kitchen counter. "Sheriff?"

"Well, look who drew the short straw tonight." Radford's drawl was deep and familiar. "At least I won't have to break in somebody new."

"After all we've been through together, Tom?" A meth bust. A nasty porn ring. "You ought to be tired of me. Dispatch said something about a kidnapping?"

"Yep, looks like it. Details are a little hinky, though. I'll fill you in when you get to the scene."

"Works for me. Tell me where you are." She wrote down the directions, then ended the call.

Mark almost looked sober. "I'll go with you."

Jamisky was an experienced agent, but Lana declined. "Two martinis and wine with dinner, Mark. Besides, you know Ballard is going to stick me with the kid as soon as this is logged in."

"Shit, the boss still has you babysitting that rookie?"

"Somebody has to do it." Lana moved to her bedroom to change out of date-night clothes into something more appropriate to a rural crime scene. Mark was at her back as soon as the dress hit the floor, his hands warm on the bare skin of her shoulders. She couldn't suppress a tiny flare of annoyance. Her mind was already on the job ahead.

"I could wait around. Save something for you." He pressed against her, making it clear what would be there for her when she got back.

She turned into him and forced a smile. "It'll probably be a long night, babe." She gave him a quick kiss and pulled back.

He watched her as she finished getting dressed and tamed her unruly blond curls into a disciplined French twist. "Ever thought about giving all this up, Lana? Taking on a normal lifestyle?"

She didn't even spare him a glance as she sat to lace up her hiking boots. "Do I look like the desperate-housewife type?"

"No, you look like the desperate-agent type. You let these cases get to you—the murders, the kidnappings. You take them personally. If I was the Supervisory Special Agent around here, you'd only be allowed to use that famous intuition on white-collar crime."

She shrugged into her shoulder holster and kept her mouth shut. She refused to apologize for loving her job.

She pulled her Glock 23 down from its spot on the shelf, loaded it and slipped it into the holster. Then she scooped up some extra ammo, threw it into her bag with her credentials and her cell phone and turned to go.

Mark frowned at her from his post against the doorjamb. "Now you're mad."

She closed the distance between them and brushed her lips over his. "No. Just grumpy at having to go out. Call you later?"

He smiled a little. "If I don't answer, it's because I've found somebody else to occupy my time."

She grabbed his crotch and gave him a squeeze. "Y'all have fun."

Purple night was gathering in the hollows as Lana and her partner rounded the bend in Highway 70 and saw the little store that was the staging area for the investigation. Cars filled the gravel parking lot in front of Dalton's Market and lined the curve on that side of the road. She pulled off the opposite roadside and parked her FBI-issue Chevy sedan behind a State Police car.

Her nerves hummed with anticipation. Catching a major case on complaint duty had made her night. She felt a brief flutter of regret over Mark, but it didn't last. If she had any sense, she'd be looking outside the Bureau for dating material. Way outside. Like maybe Mars.

Her partner sat up in the passenger seat and yawned. "Looks like the locals are having a party. I bet the scene's a freakin' mess."

Rick Mason was still on probation, fresh out of Quantico. He had a lot to learn, and Lana was tired of teaching him.

"You forget I'm a local, too, rookie." She'd grown up around Nashville, spent hours on the back roads of Middle Tennessee. She was the reason a man like Tom Stafford could call the Feds for help without choking.

The kid rubbed a hand across his buzz cut. "I didn't mean—"

"Just follow me and pay attention." Lana grabbed her creds and cell phone and led Mason across the road to the store. Inside, in a cluttered space that smelled of country ham and coffee, she found the controlled chaos of a police command center: State Police, sheriff's deputies, fire and rescue, a couple of Tennessee Bureau of Investigation suits, store personnel and one guy who looked like he'd been worked over pretty good—the victim. No media yet, though, thank God.

A tall, beefy redhead in a brown uniform separated himself from the group. He grinned and stuck out a hand.

"Good to see you again, Lana."

She answered the grin and took his hand. "Hey, Tom. This is my partner Rick Mason." She waited for the nods and handshakes to be done before she asked, "So where are we?"

Radford handed her a clipboard with the preliminary report. "Victim, Doctor Ethan Roberts, found wandering along the road just outside the store here, injured and mentally altered. No phone, no ID. Folks called 911. EMTs called our office when the guy finally remembered what happened, at around 4:47 p.m."

Lana glanced from the report to the battered man on the stretcher in the corner of the room. "Altered how?"

"Couldn't remember any details about what had happened to him until the EMTs got here. He'd been hit in the head bad enough to have been unconscious for at least an hour. Should be in the hospital, but he wouldn't let us take him."

_Ah, hell._ Her heart contracted as she read further. "His wife and child were taken?"

Radford nodded. "TBI Crime Lab is already at the river where he says they were attacked, but there were at least four or five vehicles down there today. Lots of folks use that area as access to the river. We're canvassing for witnesses. Nothing yet. My guys found what looks to be his car about two miles from there. Torched."

"He's got a lot of blood on him." She kept her voice steady. "All of it his?"

"Haven't gotten that far."

"We'll need his clothes, samples. Think he'll agree without a warrant?"

Lana saw sympathy on the sheriff's ruddy face. "Whatever happened down there, I don't think he's part of it. I think he'll agree to just about anything if it'll help."

"Okay. amber Alert?"

"Yep. He's given us pictures of his wife and son."

Lana turned to her partner. "Rick, you stay with the locals putting in the Alert. Call it in to HQ and provide whatever help they need. I'm going to talk to our man."

Disappointment crossed Mason's youthful features before he nodded and followed the sheriff. Lana turned to look at the man she would be interviewing.

The two black eyes, the busted lip and the bruises on his face made it difficult to imagine what he actually looked like, but the strong jaw and the cleft in his chin were still visible. Maybe he'd started the day out a handsome man, maybe late thirties, early forties. Despite his injuries, he had fought back—his knuckles were scraped and bruised. They'd finally had to hit him from behind to take him down.

The real question was why they hadn't just killed him outright. She knew the usual answer, though she hated it. Whoever had done this wanted him alive to come up with the goods. The wife and son were just the collateral. The thought of the boy, defenseless and terrified, brought old panic screaming up from where she kept it hidden. She shoved it back down and went to work.

The man lay propped up on the stretcher, the IV still counteracting his dehydration. "Doctor Roberts?"

He opened his swollen lids, revealing bloodshot blue eyes.

"I'm FBI Special Agent Alana Matheson, here to help with the investigation." She showed him her credentials. "I have a few questions for you, if you're up to it."

He nodded. "Have they found anything?"

"We're doing everything we can. Can you remember anything about the men who attacked you? What they looked like? The vehicle they left in?"

Roberts exhaled slowly and closed his eyes again. "I've tried. I don't remember anything beyond being at the river with Asia and Jack this morning. I asked for a blood test. I think they may have drugged me."

"Before or after hitting you in the back of the head?"

"After. I think I was out a long time—longer than the head injury accounts for."

"Interesting theory. What kind of doctor are you again?"

He looked at her, his gaze sharp despite his puffy lids. "A psychiatrist."

She smiled. "So you would know, huh, Doc?"

"Yeah. I would."

"How long do you estimate you were out?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "At least two hours, maybe longer."

She stared at him. "Damn. That's quite a head start. Did you tell the sheriff this?"

"I tried. Not sure he believed me."

She turned to look for her partner. "Hey, Rick!" She moved her head to bring Rick over. "Doctor Roberts says he thinks he was out at least two hours, maybe more, down by the river. By the time he hiked all the way up here, the perps were probably gone with Asia and Jack for three-four hours. We need to expand the search net."

Mason nodded. "I'm on it."

"Doctor, if you want to help your wife and your son, you have to be honest with me. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt you by taking Asia and Jack?"

Roberts looked at her for a long moment, and in his face she saw anger flicker and be extinguished. "No."

"Do you owe anyone money? Are you involved with drugs or gambling?" She asked the questions, but somehow she couldn't believe this man would answer yes. He was too self-possessed, his emotions too tightly controlled. If he was into anything like that, he was in deep and at the top. Psychiatry wasn't the usual cover career.

"Why ask me these questions again, Agent Matheson, when you know if I was involved I'd lie? You'll be looking into my background anyway."

"And what will I find when I look into your background, Doctor?"

"Nothing that will help you find my wife and son." He was growling now, everything about him showing anger and bone-deep fatigue. "This is not about drugs, or loan sharks or my first wife, who is dead, by the way, or my wife's ex-husband, who she hasn't seen in maybe five years."

"All right." The more questions the man answered, the more issues he seemed to raise. "What about your patients? Any of them crazy enough to want to hurt you?"

He appeared to consider it, but at last the question seemed to defeat him. "I don't think any of my patients are capable of this. They're harmless neurotics, not dangerous psychopaths."

Lana let the silence hang between them for a moment. "Everything all right between you and your wife, Doctor Roberts?"

His reaction was immediate—but it wasn't the outrage she expected. He closed his eyes and drew in a quick breath, his face frozen in a mask of pain. Unable to hide his misery, Ethan Roberts simply lay on that stretcher and tried to breathe. Lana found it damn hard to watch.

At last he opened his eyes to look at her, and she saw nothing but truth. "I love my wife, Agent Matheson. I would have died to protect her and my son, if I could have. She loves me; she wouldn't have left me. She and my son were _taken_. Tell me you can bring them back."

Lana looked at Roberts' battered face and thought maybe Mark had been right about her. Because this hunt had just become more than a case. For no reason she could explain, it had become personal.

**X orinxe Spaceport, Savagne Planetary Governance, Sector 13**

Gabriel Cruz stood in the understated luxury of the XEX Corporation lobby, the sweat trickling down his spine the only outward sign that he did not belong there. His visitor's badge had already survived examination at the security desk, helped along by a discreet pass over the guard's mind. Gabriel knew he couldn't blend in here. Any strange face was noted and catalogued. The impression he made while he waited for his client had to be the right one. He'd made sure his clothing showed plenty of credits and class; his face wouldn't show up on any criminal databases, so he was just vain enough to think his dark good looks were an asset.

Outside, past ten centimeters of clear, protective trans-steel, Savagne's incessant wind howled. The phosphorescent sand lifted off the dunes and rode the swirling gusts, painting the night sky in riotous color. Those winds, the scouring sands—that was the reality of this planet, not the pampered life XEX had made possible beneath the environmental domes and the planet surface. Something in Gabriel that wouldn't be tamed watched the raging desert and howled with it.

The elevator chimed its arrival from the lower levels, and Gabriel turned to meet his client. Martin Blake was a smallish human, nearing middle-age, hardly impressive. Yet Gabriel knew if this unassuming genius escaped the planet tonight as planned, the biggest corporate giant in the quadrant would wake in the morning to find its golden-egg-laying goose missing.

He met Blake halfway across the lobby with a big grin and a firm handshake. "Martin! Good to see you again. When was the last time—that nanovirals conference on Prena, wasn't it?" He sent a subtler message directly to the communication centers of Blake's brain. _Easy now. Remember the plan. We're colleagues, remember? This is a social call. Go through your usual checkout. I'll handle the guard._

The guard watched them closely, suspicious that the employee under his watch might attempt to pass sensitive material on to this "friend". Gabriel backed off to a proper distance and urged Blake forward.

"Yes, uh, excuse me just a minute, John." Blake indicated the guard. "I've just got to check out."

"Oh, sure, sure. Do whatever you need to." Gabriel sauntered up behind him while the checkout proceeded, appearing only to be ready to follow his friend through the exit gate.

At the last minute he laid a casual hand on the guard's arm. "You don't need me for anything do you?" He sent a light suggestion through the man's mind, erasing the details of his face and name. In minutes, the guard would not be able to recall his presence at all.

The guard shook his head as his eyes glazed over.

Gabriel guided his man through the gilded doors leading out into the dome. "Let's go."

Stealing Blake from right under the nose of the CEO of XEX had been the easy part. Keeping him safe from Chairman Xe, who'd come out of Savagne's desert and had all the instincts of his sandcrawler ancestors, would be a different matter.

Like XEX Corporate, the workplaces and playgrounds of the elite sat on a broad thoroughfare around the outer rim of the dome, each claiming a wedge of stark desert view above and multiple levels below ground. But Gabriel sought fewer lights on a street less traveled. He ducked into a dusty alleyway and led his lamb across the less-fortunate center of the dome. No place inside the domes was truly wretched, but behind the restaurants and prosperous businesses, the garbage still stank and the shadows were thick enough to hide in.

Blake finally found the courage to speak. "Couldn't we have just taken the sub line from XEX?"

"Yes, if we'd wanted Corporate Security on our tails. That's your usual way home, isn't it?" Gabriel approached the end of an alley and scanned the street beyond. Clear. He emerged, Blake close behind him.

"You mean I'm being watched, despite all my precautions?"

He glanced down at the little man. "You're Xe's most valuable engineer. What do you think?"

"Are you sure Security's not waiting for you?" Blake was scowling now as he struggled to keep up with Gabriel's long strides. "You're the one with a 20,000-credit bounty on his head."

"True enough." Gabriel's own father had put it there, and though the bloody bastard was long dead, his two half-brothers and plenty of others were still trying to collect. "But I'm still alive, and people have offered me good credit to make sure you do the same. I always earn my pay."

"Best extractor in the galaxy, my ass." Blake hunched his shoulders. "Just get me the fuck on that ship, will you?"

The street had become narrow and winding, crowded with people stumbling in and out of the bars on either side. Loud music and the sour smell of cheap synthohol spilled from the doorways. This was the heart of the dome, as dangerous as it got inside, but Gabriel wasn't watching for prostitutes or pickpockets.

Four more pylons to mark before they reached the sub line that would take them to the port. Five minutes' walk. and then Gabriel saw what he'd been looking for—a hulking bounty hunter lurking in the shadows cast by the lights over a bar. Two party girls hung on his arms, their attention on the passing crowd. Gabriel grabbed Blake and melted into the dark on the opposite side of the street.

Blake protested. "What the fuck?"

_\--Shut up! Someone's on to us. Who have you been talking to?_

_\--No one! I swear, no one knows! I've been careful._

_\--Not careful enough._ He nodded in the direction of the bounty hunter.

Blake shook his head, his eyes wide.

\-- _We have to make it to the sub line without being seen. Follow me, and do_ not _get lost._

Gabriel slipped into a fetid alley leading off the street they'd been walking. Once he was well away from the noisy bar strip he began to run. Blake was hard put to keep up with him, but he didn't wait for the little man. His client's life depended on speed. If Blake thought he'd be left behind he'd run faster.

The four pylons went by like a shot at running speed, and Gabriel dashed down the steps into the sub line with a sense of relief. No one was behind them. He scanned the crowd on the sub platform and didn't see the boundary hunter. Their luck was holding.

The sub train pulled up. People got off. He pushed Blake forward and got on after him. The train took off with a jerk and rapidly gained speed. Then it surfaced like a sand dragon breaching, and skimmed along the surface, headed for one of three stops outside the domes. all around the battering winds wailed and moaned. The neon sand streaked overhead and scratched at the windows, finding its way in through the seals. The sub wheezed to a stop in the shadow of a sand-blasted butte, and a handful of workers got off at the shantytown station, headed home from jobs too menial to support housing in the domes.

Even so, they were luckier than some. The train began to roll again and slid past a low-slung complex of lighted buildings surrounded by razor wire. Gabriel cursed.

Blake followed his gaze, but he didn't see. "What is it?"

"Fucking Minertsan slave mine. Like to blow it to hell."

"Don't think my boss would appreciate that much." Blake offered a sardonic smile. "He has a cozy relationship with the Grays. Slave labor is cheap, not counting the cost of protection from the Interstellar Council for Abolition and Rescue."

"The Grays steal people off Earth and wipe their minds and work them to death in mines like that one." Like his own Cuban grandparents. Until Rescue got them out. "Let's hope what Xe pays isn't enough."

They rode on in silence in the full sub car, the passengers with them a cosmopolitan mix of humans, reptilian Savagnoirs, tall Ninoctins and a few others. The second and third desert stops came and went. As the train neared the port complex, Gabriel began to think they might make it without trouble. The first port stop, in the dome housing the freight docks, was coming up in less than a minute.

Then the door between cars opened with a whoosh. "Ah, hell."

The bounty hunter stalked down the aisle toward them, a grin cracking his grizzled face. His hands were empty, though, and that was his mistake.

"Up. Move!" Gabriel pushed at Blake. "Now!"

They scrambled out of their seats and down the aisle. Behind them, the hunter took up the chase. Gabriel grabbed the first thing he could lay hands on—someone's duffle—and threw it at the hunter's feet, tripping him up. He heard a curse and a thud just as they reached the door at the end of the car, then they were through to the other side. They kept moving, through that car and into the next one. But as they neared yet another door, their luck ran out. With the bounty hunter closing in from behind, sub line security had entered the car in front of them. His client couldn't afford to be taken into custody; Chairman Xe owned the law enforcement on Savagne.

Gabriel yanked open the door and surveyed the exit between the cars. "We'll be exiting a little sooner than expected."

Blake stared at him in horror. "You can't be serious!"

The station announcement came just as the train entered the dome and began to reduce speed. Gabriel checked the security men in front, the hunter nearly upon them behind. People preparing to exit had filled the aisles, slowing them down, giving Gabriel and Blake a few more precious seconds before they had to jump.

Gabriel could hear the security guards yelling for people to make way, but no one was moving. Outside the train, the station came into view. The train slowed, slowed. Gabriel kicked open the exit door, grabbed Blake and jumped, dropping into a roll as his feet, then his shoulders, hit the hard platform with bone-crushing force. The breath left him, and he heard Blake shout something. Then he was on his feet, dragging the little man behind him, searching for the stairs that led out of the station.

_There—up ahead!_ But— _damn it!_ —the bounty hunter had already caught up with them. They pelted up the stairs to the main level, their pursuer's boots heavy on the treads behind them. Gabriel steered his man to the left at the top and turned to plant his foot in the hunter's chest. The hunter parried and sliced his calf with a 20-centimeter blade. Cursing, Gabriel snatched his leg back and punched hard at the man's nose. The hunter kept coming with the knife.

Gabriel scrambled back as the blade swept in towards his gut. The swing just missed him, and he rushed the man, pinning the hunter's knife arm to his chest and twisting his wrist. The knife slipped out of his grip. Gabriel let go of the pinned arm and smashed his elbow into the man's face, but _Jesus!_ he just wouldn't go down. and now the sliced muscle of Gabriel's calf was giving way, refusing to hold him. He went with it and dropped to the ground with the man's jumpsuit in his fists, flipping him over his head. By the time he'd rolled out of the throw, the fucker had nearly gotten to his feet.

_To hell with this._ Gabriel pulled the stunner from inside his jacket and squeezed the trigger. The hunter went down in a rigid convulsion of agony.

Gabriel grabbed his client by the arm and hustled him into a side corridor as alarms began to blare at the discharge of an unauthorized weapon. He got them out of sight, and wrapped a strip of his shirt around his wound so he wouldn't leave a blood trail. Then they navigated a maze of stacked containers into the quietest part of the automated freight docks. All the while Blake trotted at his side, wordless and pale.

In range now, he made his connection. "Cruz to _Shadowhawk_."

" _Shadowhawk_ here. Stand by for Captain Murphy."

Sam Murphy wasn't happy. "Where the hell are you? And is all that comm noise I'm hearing because of you?"

"Just get me onboard and get us to the jump ASAP. I've got the whole damn planet after my ass."

"Can you get to a D-mat pad? We'll register you as cargo transfer."

He saw one of the larger units meant for cargo up ahead, deserted at this hour. "Yeah, we're good." He and Blake stepped up on the pad. "Ready on your mark."

The freight dock disappeared and the _Shadowhawk_ 's D-mat pad resolved in a shimmer of consciousness. Gabriel limped off the pad, but got no further before the ship's captain flung open the hatch and strode in to meet him.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't we?" Murphy looked him over with a critical eye before he slipped a well-muscled arm under his shoulder and helped him to the corridor. He ignored Blake.

"We? Where were you when that hunter tried to slice me in half?"

"Bounty hunter?" Murphy shot a glare at Blake. "Yours or his?"

"His, we think. But no matter. Where's the better half?"

"Rayna's on the bridge, trying to talk us out of orbit. Space Authority wants to shut down all departures for some reason." They turned into a hatchway labeled "Crew Lounge", and Murphy lowered Gabriel into the nearest seat. "Figured you wouldn't let me take you to Sickbay."

Gabriel grunted. "You figured right. Could use some skinseal, though." His leg still hurt like a sonofabitch.

Murphy came back to the table with a medkit, a tumbler for Gabriel and two mugs full of grog for himself and Blake. "Spit in Xe's eye!"

They all raised their glasses to that.

Gabriel grimaced. "Synthohol? I know you keep the good stuff."

"In my cabin. I'll share later. First we need to talk."

"Look, I wouldn't have pulled the stunner if that hunter hadn't come at me with a knife." He bent to clean and seal the rip in his leg.

Murphy waved a hand. "Necessary. No, I have another job for you."

He sat back. "Don't need another job." What he needed was a bed. And a woman. And the time to enjoy them both. Sam had it right—partner up with your mate.

But Murphy wasn't taking no for an answer. "This one is special. A woman and a six-year-old child were taken. Returned slaves—and personal friends."

"How long ago?" Time was key.

"About ten hours planetary by now, I guess."

"Where?"

"Earth."

Gabriel's eyes opened wide in shock. "Say again?"

"You heard me."

When he wasn't providing transport for Gabriel's clients, Sam Murphy served an organization with a very narrow view of where you could go and what you could do. "I thought Earth was off-limits for Rescue."

"It is. This isn't a job for an official Rescue team." Murphy caught his gaze. "It's strictly a one-person operation, very low-profile. The local authorities are already involved."

Before Gabriel could respond, Blake broke into the conversation. "I've heard rumors that the Minertsans have been stealing returned slaves back from Terrene. Maybe the Grays took them."

Gabriel had been raised in Terrene's colony of former slaves, a polyglot of cultures forever cut off from their home planets. He'd heard the rumors, too.

He looked at Murphy. "Well?"

The captain frowned. "Could be, but Asia . . . well, let's just say she has special talents of interest to certain Earth-based groups. They tried to take her once before. We think this is a repeat."

He studied Sam's face. Dios _, she's resistant to the mindwipe. No wonder they want her._ Even the Grays would find that interesting.

Gabriel shook his head. "Sam, you know I hate working on Earth." Black ops agents who knew too much. Overfed dirtside cops with small minds and provincial attitudes.

"Yeah." The captain ran a hand through his black hair, turning it into spikes. "But she's a good friend, Gabriel. And the boy's only six."

Damn it, Sam really knew how to push his buttons. Even Blake was looking at him like a lost mooncat.

"And there's something else." Murphy shifted in his seat. "Our intel says the _Bloodstalker_ 's headed for the Sol system. Kinnian and Trevyn Dar are in command."

Blake went pale. "Jesus, those killers? The Thrane hunters?"

Gabriel's teeth clenched hard in his jaw. Rescuing this mother and son from Earthers with a hard-on for UFO's would be all in a day's work. Saving them from his alien half-brothers would be a matter of personal honor.

He tossed back what remained in his glass. "I'm in. Set course for Earth."

You can find out more about _Trouble in Mind_here.

A Brief Note about _Trouble in Mind_

* * *

A little boy named Jack is the reason _Trouble in Mind_ came to be. Simply by showing up at the end of the book, he had the power to meld Asia and Ethan, the lovers of my first novel, Unchained Memory, into a family. Almost right away, I knew there was more to Jack, and the idea of a new story began coalescing around him. Then there was Lana and Gabriel, a compelling couple if ever there was one. Add the scheming little Gray alien whose behind-the-scenes manipulations set the whole story in motion and I had a corker of a start.

* * *

By the time _Trouble in Mind_ was done, it was a complex tale full of plots and subplots, intrigues and entanglements across the galaxy. As with Unchained Memory, the first book of my Interstellar Rescue series, this second book takes place largely on Earth, but in a world altered by a new perception of the more populated, more dangerous, galaxy beyond. We see a lot more of that galaxy in this book, including a lot more of the bad-guy aliens' home world. And if you haven't read Book One, never fear. Trouble in Mind was written to be a companion novel, not a sequel. Same universe, different story. Hope you like it.

You can find out more about _Trouble in Mind_here.

As a military brat growing up I was a voracious consumer of science fiction in all forms—in books, in movies and on television. As I grew older I began to recognize that my favorite forms of SF included liberal doses of romance—Classic STAR TREK, the writers of the New Age "humanist" revolution (Zenna Henderson, Ursula K. LeGuin, Theodore Sturgeon among others), and later THE X-FILES and AVATAR. So it was no surprise that when I started writing science fiction, my work would feature a heavy romantic arc, too.

Along my way to a science fiction suspense romance writing career I've been married to a great guy since just out of college, been a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, raised a family (two girls, two grandkids), tried organic farming, been a community activist, earned black belts in two different styles of martial arts and written four STAR TREK fanfic novellas (and numerous short stories) for "underground" publication. (Ask me sometime about TREK conventions!)

In 2012, my first two SFR novels finaled in the Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart® contest for unpublished manuscripts. Shortly thereafter, I found my literary home with the fabulous Michelle Johnson, founder of Inklings Literary Agency and INK'd Press. _Unchained Memory_ was released from INK'd Press in February, 2015. _Trouble in Mind_ followed in February, 2016.

I'm a member of the Romance Writers of America, the Science Fiction Romance Brigade, the Fantasy, Futuristic and Paranormal Chapter of RWA, the Golden Network (of past and current Golden Heart finalists) and the Firebirds (2012 Golden Heart finalists).

Currently I live on 43 beautiful mountain acres in Marshall, North Carolina with my husband and two talkative cats.

Find out more about Donna:

Website Blog Facebook Twitter: @DonnaSFrelick

# Inherit the Stars by Laurie A. Green

# About Inherit the Stars

To escape the merciless Ithian Alliance, Sair, a fugitive slave, makes a desperate deal with Drea Mennelsohn, captain of the prototype ship, _Specter_. But putting his life in the hands of a woman as mysterious as she is beguiling could turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

Drea seems to want far more from the escapee than just payment for his passage on her ship. Sair soon finds himself not only emotionally connected but fatefully entangled in her destiny--a course that will take him full circle to face the very evil he most fears.

2016 Carolyn Readers Choice Award Winner

# Sample of Inherit the Stars

One chance. No mistakes.

Sair took a deep breath and peered out the open airlock of the merchant ship. This was it. Make a wrong move now and he'd end up as the main course at an Ithian feast. Heart pounding, he studied his escape route. No threat in sight; he had a clear path to the street outside the hangar. He gripped the edge of the hatch, palms slick, legs twitching.

_Now._

No shouts of alarm spiked above the roar of the busy spaceport when he darted off the ship. Outside the hangar, he tried to disappear into the crowd on the bustling street. He sucked in his breath when a sharp-featured man in a dusty sun cloak strode straight for him.

Carduwan, not Ithian _. Thank the Fire Lords. A neutral._

Sair caught the man's arm. "Where am I?"

The Carduwan registered his size and build, his expression melting from annoyance to fear. "Eliptis hangtown." He edged away. "Sir."

"What planet?"

The man's eyes widened, and he croaked, "Dartis."

_Just my luck._ A sandy, hell-baked ball where the Ithians ran as thick as rats in grain.

Sair tugged the terrified Carduwan closer, staring into the man's sunshield. "Give me those."

"Yours." The man fumbled the dark frame off his beakish nose.

Sair grabbed the sunshield and slid it home, glad to hide his eyes.

_Don't thank him. You're Rathskian._

He released the Carduwan and glanced back at the hang entry just as a chubby man shuffled onto the street. The pilot!

He froze, but the man never glanced his way. He didn't seem to have a clue Sair had stowed away in his freight compartment to escape. So far, so good. At least he hadn't been served up on a platter yet.

Sair strode away, breathing easier as he ducked down a side street that put him out of sight of the hang. Four strides later, he heard shouting voices, thumping sounds. He crept back to the corner to peek around a slag brick column. His heart jumped.

A squad of seven uniformed thugs had the pilot pinned against the hang wall, screaming questions in his ears. Their arm bands sported dual bars. Ithian Alliance operatives.

_Gigadam. They know I'm on Dartis!_

The premier must have traced every vessel leaving his private spaceport. It seemed his owner was going to throw all his resources into recapturing him and hauling him back to Ithis. Sair didn't want to think about what fate awaited him there.

_And those I left behind?_

He grimaced against a sharp sting of remorse then doubled back, putting as much distance between himself and the merchant ship as he could, as fast as he could, without breaking into a run. Panic would only draw attention, which was the last thing he needed.

Head up and sunshield in place, he ignored the rough-faced crewies and hangtown beggars who moved aside as he passed. At least being Rathskian offered _that_ advantage. His subspecies' badass reputation might get him through the streets in one piece, but he had to escape this Ithian-infested pebble of a planet before he was caught.

With each step, he checked ahead, scanning each building and alley, every corner and entryway for uniforms. A glance back confirmed no one followed.

_Find a bookie!_

After three more turns and a fork to the right, he spied a kiosk sheltered by a battered frond umbrella. It huddled at the side of a street clogged with foot traffic and whining crew carts. Sair backed into the cooler shadows of an alley and watched. Several crewies paused to exchange words with the tender. None of them bought. It appeared he'd found what he was looking for.

He checked the street in both directions. No uniforms.

_Go now._

He cut through the tide of foot traffic to reach the kiosk, angled himself between two of the floating barstools, and parked his foot on the rail. Pressing a coin to the counter, he slid it across to the tender. "Billins, if you have it."

"Got it raw," the toothless man muttered in Universal. He served up an egg-shaped gourd with a hard, stringy shell, and a corroded pair of Billinsboks to tap it.

"Yours," Sair said when the balding man offered him change.

The tender nodded with a slight rise of an eyebrow. "Be needin' anythin' else then?" The man had taken interest. Good sign, if Sair had guessed right. Disaster, if not.

Sair motioned him closer. "A ship off—preferably soon."

"Hmpf." The tender turned to flip a toggle and a cleaner-bot trundled over the counter, swabbing the surface with a sour-smelling chamois. "Rathskian, are ya?"

Sair bore no hideous kensmarcs on his face, but his trademark powerful build and dark features betrayed his subspecies. No doubt the Ithians were airing his bounty notice on all the electraboards. He made note of an escape route before responding, "What of it?"

The tender shook his head. "Got nothin' for a Rathskian. Ship leavin' at sunset today, but the mate'll slit your throat. Hates Rathskies."

"What ship?"

The tender tilted his head. " _Specter_."

Sair almost choked on a swallow of sour Billins. "The Mennelsohn prototype?"

"Know ships, do ya?"

"A bit." More than a bit, in this case. A detailed model of _Specter_ occupied a shelf in his quarters on Ithis, next to several dozen starship models he'd fashioned by hand. A hobby that had become an obsession.

"Mennelsohn built this proto a'fore he died. His brat flies it now. Comes in once or twice a calendar. Ship's a P2PC. Planet-to-Planet Courier. Special cargo vessel. They fly passengers...but not _you_. Mate'll skewer you on sight."

"Where's she hanged?"

The man looked him in the eye and rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. "Twenny-five replas."

Sair slipped him the coins. He hated to pay so much, but if he didn't find immediate passage, money wouldn't matter.

"Bay Blue Eight." The tender pocketed the coins and wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron. "Wouldn't go there though, even big as y'are."

"You there!"

Sair jumped. Not thirty steps away, five towering Ithian officers ran down a hapless man—a guy who looked a lot like _him_ —pinning him in the sand with laze-daggers. The crowd thinned in an instant, leaving Sair exposed.

He pushed away from the kiosk and slipped into the shadows of an alley, watching his back. No one followed, but he had to find Bay Blue Eight in a hurry. At least now he had a shot at getting off this rock, skewered or otherwise.

He made his way through the thriving populace of thieves, thugs, whores, and pirates, doing his best to blend in. His fine outer garments and clean cut appearance were not a plus. A dozen pairs of eyes sized him up before drifting on to softer targets. Sair knew he looked the part of a tough combatant, but his weapons were a ruse, stolen from a guard back on Ithis. If confronted, he'd have a hard time getting his knife out of its sheath without fumbling it. Then he'd be set on by rogues who could see he had no skills in the fighting arts.

He wasn't optimistic about his chances. Even if he reached Bay Blue Eight in one piece, most captains who risked smuggling illegals charged three times the normal passenger fee. With few remaining coins, he didn't have the going rate. He could only make his best attempt to strike a deal and hope for a wicked stroke of good luck. Or find a way to slip onboard and stow away in the lower freight compartment. Were the Fire Lords smiling today?

The next turn took him past a row of blue hangs and his pulse quickened. _Getting close now._ Walking up behind a gang of roughs with cobalt tattoos, he tried to mimic their swagger and look a part of their group.

He glanced overhead at a hovering electraboard. His image filled the screen, along with his bounty in bold, red letters. 14,000 replas. Live capture only. _Empora's Hades!_

Another band of Ithian operatives burst from a side alley and intercepted a group of crewies in the street ahead. The tattoo gang scattered in five directions. Sair ducked into the shadows of a hang and flattened against the wall, heart thundering in his chest. Watching through a tear in the steelonate, he waited until the agents lost interest in the crewmen and moved off then craned his neck to check the bay numbers.

Bay Blue Five.

Bay Blue Eight was only a sprint away across an open stretch of sand between the tall, boxy rows of hangs. Sair edged to the hangar door and checked in both directions. Deserted. But more Ithian operatives were surely lurking nearby, scanning every soul for his face.

He held his breath and mouthed a silent prayer. _This is for you, Saybin._

Head down and hands thrust in his pockets, he reached Bay Blue Eight in forty long strides. Fine grit clung to his shiny boots. _She wouldn't care for that_. His mouth ticked down at her memory.

He ducked into the hang and pressed against the inside wall, listening. Shouts in the distance confirmed the Ithians were moving away. For now. He released his breath and pushed off the wall, turning toward the ship.

_Specter._ She sat in the shade on stout struts, glowing milk-white. Sair stepped closer, eyes wide, correlating her lines to the model he'd spent a calendar building. Could this be fate?

He took in the sleek, rounded angles of her convex fuselage, the dual stabilizer scoops, and the twin tail risers supporting a horizontal airfoil. Atmospheric assists, he knew; the vessel didn't need such devices to travel through the vacuum of space.

The full-scale _Specter_ was bigger than he'd imagined, pushing the bounds of patrol class toward light cruiser. She looked shipyard new. Not a scratch, not a scuff. And though she must've been nearly seven calendars old—and untold billions of flight milos—she sparkled with the pristine glow of a vessel awaiting her maiden launch.

Sair's gaze settled on the registration numbers and bright red diamond insignia. Licensed out of the Azures, she proudly displayed the registry of preference for half the pirates in the galaxy. He blew out his breath. No kid of Mennelsohn's would resort to piracy, would he? Zaviar Mennelsohn must have left a fortune to his heirs.

He recalled the bookie's warning about the first mate. He'd take his chances. It would be better to risk a cutthroat than remain on Dartis and face capture by the Ithians. Anway, it was the look of the skipper that really mattered. What sort of man would captain a legend like _Specter_?

Ahead, Sair spied a young girl lying on the gangway ramp. A mirrored sunshield wrapped her face, ear-to-ear. She lay with her hands locked behind her head, and long, black hair spilling over the edge of the tread. She looked to be dozing—serenely oblivious to the drama that had just played out in the street—one knee bent and foot planted on the ground. Crewie's daughter, maybe?

Sair dialed his sunshield darker. No sense letting this kid get too good a look at him. He needed to be careful, even with this youthful stranger.

She raised her head when he approached, hands still locked behind her neck. Like a cat, she was on her feet in one fluid leap. Sair's eyes moved from the rise of her breasts to the flare of her hips. The whole athletic package was neatly contained in a sleek, olive-drab flightsuit. His mistake. She was little...but no little girl.

He stopped at the foot of the gangway. "Cap here?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to talk to him."

A twitch pulled at the edge of her mouth. "I'm the mate. Talk to _me_."

He recalled the bookie's warning and stifled a smile. Watch out for this little breeder? Had to be a joke. "I don't do business with crew."

"You Rathskian?"

"What of it?"

Her knife flashed as it caught the sun. "I'll gut you, you bastard scum!"

Sair threw both hands up and jumped back as the woman took a swing at him. She was faster. The tip of her blade slashed the left breast of his jacket. "Sunnabitch!"

She lunged again, this time dropping the blade low, set on gelding him. Sair scrambled out of her reach, cold sweat breaking out on his neck. She was good with her knife. Damned good. _Mate'll slit your throat_ , the bookie had said, but it wasn't his throat she was after.

"Put the knife down, you crazy _marka_. I'm a customer."

"Not on this ship, _heo_."

Angry at the insult, he made a grab for her knife hand. Foolish. She blocked with her free hand, seized his wrist, and wrenched it at an unnatural angle, immobilizing him. Her blade sliced across his palm in a slow, excruciating cut. A blatant sign of contempt. " _Heo._ "

"Zjel!" A woman's voice rang out from the direction of the street.

The little slasher released him and backed off a few steps. Keeping one eye on his assailant, Sair cradled his wounded hand and stared at the blonde who strode toward him, a com set perched on her left ear. She wore the same olive-drab flightsuit, unfastened down the front with a sleek black t-skin underneath, and the tease of her curves made his breath catch.

The new arrival marched up, oblivious to the smaller woman's incessant knife-weaving, and looked him in the eye before turning to his attacker. "What goes?"

"This Rathscum challenged me."

"Challenged you?" Sair snapped. "I only asked to speak to the cap." Blood seeped from his cut and fell to the dust below.

"What do you want?"

Gold stars glittered on her collar. _This is the captain?_ One look at her and he knew he had to leave on this ship. "Passage."

"To where?"

"Anywhere better." He eyed the mate, still brandishing her blade, and tried not to think about his stinging, bloodied hand.

The captain appraised him with keen brown eyes. Wispy blond locks framed her face. "How much do you have?"

"We're not taking this _heo—_ "

The captain's gaze moved to her first mate's face. No words were spoken, but her message was clear.

The smaller woman's face screwed into a frown. " _Peitchau!_ " She swiped her bloody knife on her thigh, sheathed it, and stalked up the gangway before disappearing into the ship. She'd sworn in Purmian, which should've come as no surprise. Her size made her subspecies obvious.

The captain turned to him, her eyes doing a slow sweep of his body, taking his measure. "How much?" she asked again.

Sair knew if he wanted to set foot on her ship, he had to show his hand. He reached for the front of his pants and tugged his coin pouch up past the waistband. He didn't miss her cocked eyebrow before he took it in hand, offering it to her.

She shook her head. "Spill it."

He poured the pouch's contents into the cup of his good hand and held it out. It amounted to less than a hundred replas—what he'd stolen from the Ithian guard less what he'd paid the tender.

She perused the pile of gleaming gold markers and scattering of small gems then met his eyes. "It's not enough."

"I'll pay the rest when you get me to my destination."

"I've heard that before."

He dumped the handful back into the pouch as she turned away. "Then what will it take, Captain?"

She turned back. Her eyes settled on his face before she spoke. "Who you running from?"

He straightened, debating his response. He didn't think a lie would sit well with this woman. She had a look that could crack ice. "Ithian Alliance Intelligence."

"Hm. You do have a problem, then." Her gaze shifted to where her ship rested. "You have a headprice?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Fourteen thousand replas."

"That's all?" She snorted, meeting his eyes. "You aren't wanted that bad, then."

"Maybe not. But most of the headrunners in Eliptis would be happy to collect." He gave her a soulful look. "I need transport."

Her gaze left his face and slid over his broad shoulders, along his biceps, and down to his hands. She stepped forward and reached for his right; he gave it to her. Holding it palm up, she brushed her fingertips along the bloody trail her first mate's knife had left across his lifeline. "Sure you want to chance it?"

He straightened his fingers and steadied his knees, surprised at the response her touch aroused in him. No female had affected him like this since...

He curbed a tug of grief. "I'm sure."

"And you'd pay _anything_ I ask?" she whispered, her attention moving back to his face. "No questions?"

Sair withdrew his hand. He understood. He needed a way off this rock; she was offering it at a price he could afford. Service in lieu of cash.

_Saybin..._

His stared at the invisible line the captain had traced across his palm with her silken touch. His body's response was clear, but his conscience was slower to weigh in. Saybin would've wanted him to live, wouldn't she? It was either this or face recapture—and worse.

"Agreed."

A loud commotion in the alley diverted her attention. More Ithian operatives flocked outside to grill a group of locals. Her eyes cut back to him.

"If they see me, I'm dead," Sair said.

"Get onboard."

He nodded and tossed her his coin pouch. She intercepted it, gesturing for him to ascend the gangway.

Sair strode forward, sensing her eyes lingering on his backside. He took a deep breath and exhaled, knowing he'd just been drafted into stud service.

Again.

You can buy the first part of _Inherit the Stars_ or buy the complete novel.

_I nherit the Stars_ employs a rare but emerging twist in romance where the story is told solely from the male (Sair's) point of view. The title alludes to the wonderful—yet terrible—inheritance left to Captain Drea Mennelsohn by her late father. It's a gift that transforms her into something more than human and at the same time burdens her with a galaxy-altering responsibility. Her secrets are gradually revealed only via Sair's filters and perceptions. This may color her as somewhat cold and calculating at the start, but will later unveil the depth of her heart and the strength of her soul through the eyes of a man who didn't believe he could ever love again.

_Inherit the Stars_ was a 2011 RWA® Golden Heart Awards® finalist under working title "P2PC" and was named one of the "Best E-Originals of 2015" by LibraryJournal.com

You can buy the first part of _Inherit the Stars_ or buy the complete novel.

About the author:

Laurie A. Green is a three-time RWA® Golden Heart® finalist and science fiction romance enthusiast who founded the SFR Brigade community of writers, which now totals nearly 800 members.

Her extended family includes her husband, David, four dogs, three cats and several horses, all who reside on a ranch in beautiful New Mexico. When she's not writing, she's usually busy networking or searching out the perfect cup of Starbucks. She was formerly employed as a military budget director and served as a reserve police trooper for her state.

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# Hot Pursuit: Huntress of the Star Empire Episode 1 by Athena Grayson

# About Hot Pursuit: Huntress of the Star Empire

_S he always gets her man..._

Ever since she was found in the aftermath of alien attacks, Treska Sivekka has been trained to one purpose--to hunt down threats to the security of the Union that gave her an identity. But when the Union's biggest threat inspires desire, and not fear, it's going to take all her training to protect her principles against his persuasive onslaught.

The Huntress's neuro-collar and repulsor cuffs may keep Micah bound to her mercy, but they can't stop him from challenging her convictions, and the lies she's been told about his people. But when the secrets surrounding her own missing memories begin to reveal themselves, he may be the only one she can trust.

Pursued across the star system by the Huntress, helpless as his psionically-talented brethren were brought down one by one, Micah Ariesis must sacrifice himself in a sketchy revolutionary plot aimed at the Union's heart, but the mystery surrounding his pursuer's mysterious origins puts danger to a much closer heart—his own.

Huntress of the Star Empire is a sci-fi romance series adventure.

# Sample of Hot Pursuit: Huntress of the Star Empire

**_H untress and Prey_**

The hooded stranger drifted through the marketplace in the dusty spaceport, stopping to examine a junk trader's wares. A hand snaked outside the rough homespun cloak, a keycard was pressed into his palm. He glanced down to see the hologram-logo of the spaceport flophouse etched into one side. And a note scrawled on it in sharply-cursive script. "Bring food."

Having no way to argue, he complied. He spent cred-chits at the vegetable stall on scrawny-looking succulents, some tubers, and a foil-sealed self-heating quarter cut of roast cluck-bird. "Guaranteed Non-Imitation," the package declared, which probably meant it was.

He spent more cred-chits at the fruit stall on a large bunch of plump Tenraye Blacks, the only fruit that didn't look as if it had already been sitting in the dehydrator all day. Tenraye black grapes used to be found in their legendary black wine, the rich vintage a joy to the palate and a delight to the senses. _It also tastes wonderful when lapped from a nude female body_.

Next to him, a kerchiefed woman stiffened and looked around suddenly. He stepped away abruptly, hasty in securing the grapes and mentally cursing himself. _Did you forget everything you were taught?_

He couldn't close his eyes to meditate, but he could control himself in other ways, and did so now, counting the measured treads of his footsteps as he made his way to the end of the market. He breathed in time with his footsteps and concentrated on reining in his thoughts and emotions.

The effort became easier after he crossed the market threshold. The long breezeway leading to the spaceport was only sparsely populated. When there weren't so many others attempting to repress themselves and their own thoughts, it was easier for him.

Being a psypath was becoming more and more of a curse each day.

He reached the hostel and slid the card into the lock, ignoring the faint twinge of sense-warning at the back of his mind, then pushed the door open to step inside.

He was grabbed by the wrist, spun around an entire turn, and shoved up against the wall. "You're late," a voice hissed in his ear.

The air in front of him wavered, indicating someone in a stealthsuit.

"I brought fresh grapes," he muttered back. "The good kind. Rich, globular," he dropped his voice to a whisper and drew out the next word. "Sssucccculent."

"You tease," she said, burrowing an invisible hand inside his robes. When he slapped it away from his pack, it went for the front releases of his undertunic. Seconds later, he felt cool, feminine fingers on his skin.

Tightness pulled low in his gut and he dropped the pack with a clatter. His own hands reached out to the empty-looking air in front of him, fumbling and finding her curves. He dragged her against him. "I never tease," he said.

Her fingers turned hard and she dug her nails into his pecs, dragging them roughly over his skin. "You're right, you don't," she said. "And it's a damn shame, too. People will think I never taught you anything." Invisible hands shoved his cloak aside. Invisible lips pressed against his bare flesh. Invisible teeth nipped at his skin, and the low tightness beckoned. He leaned carefully back against the wall as she moved lower, down to his abdomen. He sucked in deep breaths, her scent carrying to him, heating his blood. _Ahh, Hathori_ , he thought. _The galaxy's a sadder place without them_.

Soon, though, that all would change. Starting with him. In the meantime... "Trying to teach me a lesson again?" he asked, only a hint of wry mockery to his tone. He found the clasp for the stealthsuit's field and twisted the stud.

Her green eyes flashed up at him from his midsection as her form flickered into view. She licked her lips and grinned as she slid back up his body, her breasts brushing against his bare chest, enticingly held away from him by only the thin skin of the stealthsuit. "Simply trying to round out your education, Schoolboy."

Even after ten years, she still had the power to slide those nails of hers under his skin. "Xenna—"

"Shh," she murmured, nipping at his lower lip. "I was worried about you. When you disappeared on Vashta..." A shadow flickered behind her eyes and he didn't need to use his psypath skills to understand. In her own way, she cared.

He kissed her back, much more gently than her own aggressively affectionate attacks. "You knew I'd be all right," he said. "It was too risky for me to be caught then. I wasn't ready." And the archival codexes of the Vashtans had taught him much about his psypath talents. Talents he would need very shortly, if all went according to plan. "If it's any consolation, I missed you terribly every moment I spent on that airless tramp freighter." Safely hidden in a cramped closet in the already-thin atmosphere'd area of a slow-moving bulk freighter, masking his presence from the skeleton crew, living off carefully-preserved rations for weeks...he shuddered. Even his sparse quarters in the Restoration's home cell were preferable to that. Especially as the freight crew were militant, fully-realized, well-schooled proponents of the New Morality. The mere memory of having to sit through their purity chants was enough to inspire impotent fury in him.

But for now, Xenna was here, and her hands were again moving over his skin, teasing more gently this time. And he had missed his partner, as much as she annoyed him. In one swift move, he lifted her under the arms and pushed her against the wall. "Let me show you what the Vashtans called the 'Grip of Mind'," he said. "And the...creative practical applications of it I devised, having plenty of time to think of nothing else on my way here."

Xenna wasted no time in shedding the stealthsuit, revealing her gloriously fuschia, gloriously naked form. She kicked the suit into a corner while he secured the window shutters and failed to not look. His homespun cloak joined her suit and his tunic followed soon after. She activated a small jamming device for any electronic surveillance, then crouched at his feet and helped him out of his boots. They landed with twin thunks near the clothing.

Next, he sank down into the lotus pose and closed his eyes, extending his psionic senses outwards, mentally feeling the room. The walls were thick and undisturbed by surveillance. The fixtures, however...

He stretched his mind and sent a mental flick towards the bedpost. A hiss revealed the presence of a bug. Another one expired, courtesy of his will, from the nightstand glowlamp. He identified three more, one buried in the mattress even. He frotzed that one, but left the one in the pillow and the other one woven into the rag rug on the floor. One never completely eliminated all the bugs in a room, unless you wanted them to know you were onto them. Xenna's jammer would take care of hiding their activities from the remaining intact nanospies.

He emerged from the trance and opened his eyes to the sight of her naked form, bent over and rummaging through his pack. Her rounded ass was a lovely shape, perfect for gripping. The combination of scent and sight sent a tremor of lust through him. The aftereffects of the psy-trance left him more open than usual, and he caught the stray sensation from her. She felt his eyes on her, and she liked his hungry stare. To prove it, she arched her back just that much more.

"What are you doing?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes glued to her movements. She knew very well what she was doing.

"Looking at your loot," she tossed over her shoulder, wiggling her ass again.

"Xenna." He stepped out of his pants and strode over to her.

He placed both hands on her waist and pulled her back, sinking into her. Her moan ended on a throaty laugh. "I knew you couldn't resist," she said, twisting her hips against his.

He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her against him. "I'm sorry." He bent down to kiss the nape of her neck. "Was I supposed to?"

Her head dropped back against his chest. "One day," she sighed. "You'll finally learn my lesson."

His hands left her breasts, sliding down to palm over her stomach and between her thighs. He touched lightly, deliberately so, knowing that she preferred a heavier hand. It was part of their play. "Won't ever happen," he said. He kept his tone light, not voicing what they both knew as fact. He would never be the kind of lover she wanted. Needed. It was enough that they were partners and sought pleasure together. After all, even without a temple, Xenna was still a priestess of Pleasures Untold. "Now do you want to see what I've learned?" he asked.

"Tricks later," she said breathlessly, flexing her hips. "It's been too long since I've had a man's cock inside me."

She had a point. Their time, after all, might be limited. He leaned forward and nipped her neck. "Wait."

"Are you mad?"

He put the force of his will behind his words. "Slow."

Her body responded, slowing the shifting of her hips. She groaned in frustration. "How dare you!" Her head whipped around and she glared at him, a flash of something almost hopeful coming to him from her mind. Her pheromones rebelled and the heavy scent of her arousal enticed him and almost convinced him to abandon his restraint.

Almost, but not quite. "Hush," he said, stretching out both hands. He drew in a deep breath, drawing in the power from the hot core that burned inside him, pulling it from the elements outside, the very air and earth and light, and directed his will.

Through slitted eyes, he watched as Xenna's body rose from the floor. A tiny flick of his finger spun her around. She looked down, looked back up, and gasped. "You're doing it!" she whispered, a grin breaking out on her face.

Carefully, he shifted his weight and gathered his legs under him to stand. Without moving his outstretched arms, he rose. He then turned his hand, palm out, and Pushed gently. Xenna flew back towards the wall and he hastily Pulled back at the last minute before she smacked into it like a rag doll. "Sorry, love," he said. "I need more practice."

She grinned again. "Not at all. It was a rush."

His smile stretched to match her own. "Just wait. You haven't yet begun the rush." Using only his mind, he pinned her against the wall and focused his concentration on keeping her there. He moved forward, close enough to touch—to kiss—and touched his tongue to her stomach.

She sucked in a sharp breath. It was followed by several more that turned into little half-gasping cries as he began to lick her skin. He dragged his tongue down, pausing to swirl around her navel. Her scent was heady, intoxicating. He'd missed the taste of her spice.

He placed both hands on her thighs, but sent the force of his concentration to her breasts.

"Oh!" she cried. "You—it's phantom touching!"

He would have corrected her—the psionic touch was very real on her end. His mind was actually triggering the nerve endings under her skin to respond as if to a physical touch—but he was currently engrossed in tasting her slick inner flesh.

She let out a ragged moan. "Can you—fuck me this way?" she gasped.

He shifted his concentration and she peeled away from the wall. "I'd rather just fuck you the usual way right now," he said, using his kinetic powers to lower her down within reach. "You weren't the one closeted on a freighter for three weeks."

"You poor baby," she drawled, locking her legs around his hips. Her pheromones wound through his head.

Without warning, she dug her nails into his skin, cutting deep. A flash of anger sparked in him and he shoved her against the wall rather roughly before he could rein it in. Deep satisfaction radiated from her at the sudden change in pacing and he cursed himself for falling for her tricks. "Dammit, woman," he growled. Her scent teased at him, inspiring the darker emotions.

"Don't fight it." She put her pheromones behind her words and he found himself setting a hammering pace, his body enjoying the fast and furious mating even if his mind objected. A sly smile curved over her lips as she threw her head back. "Don't stop! I'm gonna—aii!" she ended on a small shriek.

It did him in. Weeks without her—without the release of sex—weakened his resistance to her skills. And as a fully-initiated priestess, she had skills. He gave way to the pleasure that pounded through his skull, only barely remembering to shield his thoughts from broadcasting his hymn to the Hathori pleasure goddess to all and sundry in a fifty-meter radius. Heavy orgasmic heartbeats pulsed through his whole body, centering in his groin as ragged gasps escaped through his teeth.

He sagged against the wall, pinning her against it as well. Her fingers skritched lightly through his hair as she, too, breathed heavily from exertion. "I really did miss you, you know."

"I'm sure you kept busy." He slid away from her. Now that the edge had been taken off, he could afford to think further on the rest of their mission.

"Of course I did," she said from the tiny refresher unit. He heard the steam-sonic run its fifteen-second cycle and she emerged, fresh and sparkle-eyed, in a cloud of moist air. "I made friends with a lovely new recruit. A pilot."

His lips twisted in a wry smile as he stepped into the cubicle. "Restoration needs more pilots," he said. "I'm sure you did it for the Cause." As the steam-sonic recharged, he leaned his head against the wall and tried not to worry about the Restoration's desperate fight against the tide of the New Morality. Or whether his presence was more of a help or hindrance to them.

"Not at all." She smirked. "I did it for the pleasure."

He was relieved to hear it. So many years ago, he would have been scandalized—shocked by the notion that pleasure was an end of its own means. Hathori had been an exciting novelty—and a source of speculation and frustration on the parts of the ruling families. Speculation as to the reality versus the reputation for young bucks like he'd once been, and frustration for the ladies who moved in the same social circles, who couldn't understand the Hathori, yet couldn't keep their husbands and sons away from the Temple's halls.

But all that had changed with the New Morality. Unification, they called it. Unification of purpose and a cultural shift that had turned anything pleasurable into decadence, and rendered it condemnable. The Temple had been shut down by force, its priestesses and acolytes taken into custody and herded into "re-education" camps.

The universe had changed, and the new buzzwords had become safety and sobriety. And the Hathori—the people for whom pleasure was a way of life dictated by their very physiology—the Hathori suffered. Hathor's home orbit was now interdicted and under quarantine.

But Xenna's personality spilled over into her choice to join the Restoration on the front lines, in direct conflict with the Union, and in direct danger.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he murmured. "I'm quite capable of attracting the attention of a Vice Hunter all by myself."

Xenna pulled a tiny disk from the pouch on her belt and breathed on it. The moisture from her breath puffed the disk and she shook out a thin, gauzy robe of gold mesh. "Hardly," she said. "To attract a Vice Hunter, you need to indulge in vice. You, my dear schoolboy, do not project vice." She motioned to the pile of his clothing. Against the gold mesh of her sheer robe, it looked like a pile of old rags. "No point in us running if they don't know to chase us."

He rolled his eyes and stepped into the steam-sonic. "In case you've forgotten my little demonstration earlier, they've quite the reason to chase me without flaunting it."

"Yes, but if you're calling the best of the Vice Hunters, you may as well go down for the best of vices," she called out. "And if you're going to be a convincing catch, you have to make a good run of it. In a good ship."

Xenna did have a point.

The steam-sonic hissed, blasting him with hot steam and sonic waves, erasing the sweat and the dust from outside. "And how fares our lovely Delta Rose?" He raised his voice to be heard over the pipes.

"Thanks to a little creative foreplay, she's purring like a krax-cat. And just as deadly. My pilot hooked me up with a fantastic little black-market package of cloak-shields."

"Cloak-shields? Excellent." The little Delta-class transport that he and Xenna had called home among the stars had originally been his own mother's personal conveyance, until the New Morality changed the face of the Union. Luxury vehicles were decadent, and Deltas were notoriously unsafe by the measure of the New Morality.

But needs being what they were, having a Delta versus having nothing made the Delta an attractive after-market choice, and all along the outer orbits, small groups of mechanics, techs, and enthusiasts had developed "mods" for the Deltas that turned them to purposes far greater—and far more effective—than their original design.

"So we've got cloak-shields now." He stepped out of the necessary cubicle.

"That, and an actual laser cannon that can blast a ten-kilometer asteroid to dust." Xenna was stretched out on the room's narrow bunk. Still naked, but with the contents of his pack spread out beside her. She was popping the succulent grapes between her teeth with relish. "Mmm...too bad Tenraye doesn't make wine anymore. But the grapes are a consolation."

He crossed the room and bent down to kiss her, using his tongue to steal the grape from between her lips. "Only a small one, love."

She pulled him down onto the bed next to her and he fitted his body alongside hers, then selected a grape and set it in the hollow of her navel. "Did you confirm contact?" In between light kisses along the plane of her stomach, he noted that her hipbones stuck out more than usual.

"I didn't," she said. "But I have it on good authority that you're—being tracked." Her voice caught as he found a ticklish spot.

"Whose?"

"The authority of the almighty credit." She stretched, and the grape rolled down into the crease of her thigh. "I couldn't bribe my way further into the landing queue, which tells me there's something governmental going on."

"And that leads you to believe I'm being tracked?" It had been work, the past few months. Hathori outside their homeworld required permits and special clothing to travel. Universally distrusted due to their pheromonal abilities, and downright reviled by Union loyalists, there weren't many places a Hathori could fit in the Civilized Worlds. He glanced over at Xenna's pack, at the golden face-mask she wore in public, beneath a hooded cloak with a thin inner layer infused with chemical neutralizers. If the cloak didn't give her away, the lush hue of her deep pink skin marked her as an enemy of decency and an automatic target for the Vice Hunters.

Far more than elite bounty hunters, Vice Hunters were trained in the cradle of the New Morality, some said by the architect himself, a person only known as Vox Unificus—the Voice of Unity. Micah couldn't keep scorn from turning up his lip. _The whole system speaks with one voice, and it's his_. And the Vice Hunters were his weapon. Vice Hunters trained specially to hunt down the biggest threats to the new government. Able to move about the worlds with impunity, and armed with the best technology and ships from the Capitol, Vice Hunters rarely bothered with conventional transgressions like interdicted luxury goods or illegal gaming rings. Vice Hunters set their sights on the highest-level threats to the New Union. But only one name gave pause to those who could read thoughts and bend the universe to their will.

Several other Restoration agents had also enjoyed that unfortunate honor. Eight years out from the first reported sighting—along with eleven Restoration spies who'd fallen to her—confirmed her existence, and then her identity, culminating in the plot for which he gladly volunteered himself as bait.

"Not only that," Xenna made a low purring noise in the back of her throat when he bent his head to go after the grape. "The out-system checkpoint's logs held records of a Singularity-class transport skiff entering the system forty-five standard hours ago."

He breathed in the scent of her skin and burst the grape with his teeth, letting the fruit juice touch her bare skin before responding. "Truly? A real Singularity-class? They're only a myth, officially." He darted a glance up to her face as he extended his tongue to lick the grape juice from her thigh.

She smiled lazily and sighed deeply. "Officially, a myth. That doesn't make them any less real to government sensor logs." She chuckled. "Our little huntress is here," she said, "and she's hunting you. Are you prepared to be caught?"

A warning chose that instant to sound in the back of his mind. "Funny you should say that," he muttered, rolling to the side and off the bed. His senses told him what he needed to know. "Three," he said softly. "Armed with stun-weapons and greed."

Xenna's lazy smile vanished as she folded her limbs under her in a defensive crouch. "I can take them." She slid an elegant pink hand under the pillow.

"Zapgun," he whispered back. "You're a naughty wench, aren't you?"

She grinned, more feral than humorous. "It's my nature and my right as a sentient being, and damn any sanctimonious twit who tries to stop me."

His eyes unfocused as he reached out and clouded the minds of the three individuals making their way down the hallway outside. "They're hoping for the standard reward for immoral activities. But how—"

"One of us must have been observed," she said. "The jammer wouldn't have tipped them off—their spyware is low-grade and clunky."

"Their powers of observation are not," he retorted.

"We're at a dilemma, then, aren't we?" A half-amused smile sliced across her face. "Two of us, but three bodies to hide."

"Or," he said, "one of us, with the ability to craft a palatable story and avoid detection of our true nature."

"Which do you think they could identify first? A Hathori, or a psypath?" She arched an eyebrow and reached for a robe.

He rubbed his temple and sighed when the robe covered up her generous curves. Since the New Morality swept through the Civilized worlds, too many things of beauty had been covered up and hidden away, to be replaced with other views, like the hard chill in the former priestess's eyes. "Either way, violence isn't the answer. There's too much risk in tipping off the Huntress that something isn't right."

Xenna reached for her mask. "Go." She fixed the golden-hued lumisteel covering to her face via the skin-activated adhesive. From behind the carefully stylized features, her voice rang hollow. "The Huntress is after you," she said. "It's your face that's on the nets as the last wanted psypath."

He nodded and stepped forward. Outside, he could hear footsteps approaching. He lifted her mask to look into her eyes one last time and they were as blank and hard as amethyst jewels. "Be safe, Xenna," he said. "Don't—" _forget who you are_.

She lifted a fuschia finger and put it to his lips. "Don't you worry about me, Schoolboy." She replaced her finger with a quick press of the mask's cool mouth. "Now get out of here."

He pulled energy around himself and jumped. The leap carried him up to the high grille of the transom window and he nudged it aside. Below him the door opened and Xenna turned, pulling her hood up.

He pulled the grille back in place and paused for a second. Just long enough to hear her say, "There was a man here. He thought this was his room. I sent him away. I am calling for my escort now." Then he reached out to the overhang and pulled himself up, feet first, onto the roof before their sensor-sweep revealed his presence.

Micah fought the disorienting hollowness that told him he was overusing his talents and shoved more of his will into the tenuous thread connecting him to Xenna. _Believe_. He aimed the thought towards the planetary officials questioning her.

His muscles burned from holding on to the narrow ledge above him, but the physical pain came in a distant second to the headache he was developing.

"I'm sure you'll be hailed and lauded for your bravery," Xenna was saying. "Two of you against one of me—your courage will be sung in songs across the planet detailing your riddance of the Hathori Scourge that plagues this dump."

_Xenna, please_ , he begged her silently. _Just keep your head down and get out of there_. The growing feeling of unease swelled more in him, creating a distracted buzzing in his ears that just wouldn't go away. _Xenna, just go!_ The sense of urgency put pressure on him and it was all he could do not to crash back in there, fists flying.

"You mutants are all alike."

He froze at the deadly, feminine voice behind him. Why hadn't his senses picked her up?

"Turn around slowly." He felt a zapgun barrel against his temple. "You always seem to forget the rules of the slip-dance."

He did as he was told—not even psypath reflexes could avoid a blast at point-blank range—and turned around. Slowly.

Her hair was a shock of bright red above skin so pale she might never have seen a sun. But he couldn't mistake her for anyone but the fabled Huntress, even without the wrist tattoo she flashed at him. "It always takes two to slip-dance."

Her use of the vernacular made him raise his eyebrows. By all accounts, the Huntress was not only the best and most feared Vice Hunter in the entire Union, but also the most incorruptible. The worst kind of hunter—a zealot who truly believed everything she stood for. Regrettable, since her lithe, lean-limbed body looked made for pleasure—slip-dancing, so to speak—rather than its extermination.

"Not necessarily," he said. "Sometimes it takes three or four."

Her lip curled up in a snarl. "Pervert," she said. "I expect nothing else, coming from a mindsnake who keeps company with the scum of the galaxy."

He was grateful for Xenna's absence in that moment. The Hathori would have gone for the Huntress' throat at the insult, and he may very well have to contend with a dead Xenna. A universe without Xenna in it would be unconscionable. "One man's perversion is another's pleasure. It's only kinky the first time you try it."

"Shut up." Was that a blush staining her cheeks?

"I believe the Union's arrest procedure still merits the condemned a modicum of free speech," he parried, simply to keep her talking. Distracted from the subtle movements of his left hand, moving in a modified kata pattern designed to focus his telekinetic gifts towards relieving her of the utility belt at her waist.

"You believe wrong," she said curtly. "Vice Hunters are authorized to preserve the safety of Union citizens against the threat of psypath activity with extreme prejudice."

Almost...there. The belt loosened from around her hips and slid soundlessly to the ground. "Extreme prejudice seems to be your specialty," he said, rolling his eyes upward, to where the zapgun still rested against his temple.

She dropped her hand to her hip. "I do what I have to—" Her attention shifted to her belt—or lack of one—and he took his chance.

He dove forward, folding his body to duck under her arm. He hit the ground with one shoulder and rolled over the utility belt, coming up with it in his right hand. With his left, he motioned through the kata for protection with barely enough time to escape the hot blast of radiation from her zapgun. The heat dissipated against the invisible wall of kinetic energy. The monks who had trained him found the technique difficult to describe, but once learned it was very simple—he focused his telekinetic abilities in a fixed area and concentrated on pushing everything that occupied that area away.

His ears popped at the sudden decrease in pressure—his talents pushed away _everything_ —and he rose onto the balls of his feet. The belt banged against his thigh when he pulled his arm under his cloak and started running for his life.

_S onofa_—He was halfway to the hangar before she caught up with him. Treska's blood boiled at her own stupidity. Her arm came up again, only this time, she didn't waste energy shooting the zapgun. Energy weapons were useless against psypaths. First rule was to never let a psypath hypnotize you. Second was not to waste your charges shooting at one. She was damn lucky he hadn't reflected the charge right back at her.

As her feet pounded the hard, pitted surface of the spaceport hangar, her mind catalogued the do's and don't's of what made her a successful Vice Hunter and tracker of the dangerous criminals known as mindsnakes. Never let them into your mind. Never let them out of your sight, if you planned on keeping them. And never, ever, ever trust a damn word any of them said.

Psypaths had gifts that laid open the minds of others before them. A mindsnake could make you think and do anything it wanted, all the while leaving you believing it was all your idea. Only the most rigorous mental discipline could resist a mindsnake, and even then— _you're better off shooting before you lose your mind to their will_.

She stopped running and turned her outstretched arm. Closing one eye, she sighted down the length of her limb to the wrist-dart strapped there, and with a flick of her fingers, sent the dart whizzing towards her quarry.

The slender dart flew true. Just prior to the faint, watery flicker of the psypath shield he'd put up, the dart slowed, delicate vanes stretching out to spidery contact points whose ends overloaded the kinetic energy field and broke it down. The vanes ejected the dart's center in a silent puff, and the tiny, bright-hued tip buried itself in the back of the psypath's neck.

I hope you enjoy this taste of "Huntress of the Star Empire." Episode 1 is only the beginning. You can keep reading for free - Just visit my website to join my private readers group and claim THREE free episodes!

You can get more of _Hot Pursuit_here.

I hope you enjoyed this taste of "Huntress of the Star Empire," but the story is far from over. And you can keep reading for free - Just visit athenagrayson.com/freebooks to join my private readers group and claim THREE free episodes!

# Removed by SJ Pajonas
# About Removed

The year is 3103, and the Earth is dying. One of the last remaining pockets of survivors are preparing for the inevitable future — they either find a way off the planet or be left behind to die.

* * *

Sanaa Griffin is ripped from the job she always loved and reassigned to work for the mysterious Mark Sakai. Her task: spy on the corrupt leaders of the city who are playing politics and pulling strings in the hopes of earning a ticket on the next ship leaving a planet now in its final death throes. War looms on the horizon, and Sanaa must help Sakai determine the key players and their weak spots before it's too late.

* * *

Mark Sakai has many plans for Sanaa that will take her into a web of lies and danger. With the help of Jiro, a man who teaches her self defense while stealing her heart, Sanaa realizes Mark Sakai is holding back important truths about her life, her job, and her family. Learning the truth may put all of humanity in jeopardy as the great exodus from Earth begins.

* * *

REMOVED is the first book in a captivating post-apocalyptic series that harnesses the cultures and traditions of Japan and sweeps them into the future between Earth and a faraway land.

# Sample of Removed

It's New Year's Eve 3103 in Nishikyō, and I'm ready to celebrate my twentieth birthday with my two best friends. Well, almost my twentieth birthday. It's actually tomorrow, yet I always tend to think of New Year's Eve as my birthday because that's when I go out with Helena and Miko. This way we can eat, drink, and be merry as much as we want because everyone but essential services has tomorrow off from work. On the second of January, plans start back up in earnest. No more time off after this — there are too many things to get done before colonization begins next year.

People in my ward, Ku 9, have been prepping for New Year's Eve for the past week. Walking by the local Japanese restaurant the last two mornings on my way to work, I could hear the old men and women chattering away while pounding and making _mochi._ My aunts buy mochi from them and eat it on New Year's Day after going to the temple for _hatsumōde_ , our first temple visit of the year.

The streets are cleaner than they have been in months. In fact, I'm sure every apartment in the ward is completely clean. I know I wasn't the only one on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor this morning. At home, we divided up the work. Aunt Kimie cleaned the bedrooms, and Aunt Lomo got the bathroom. After I was finished, I ran into several neighbors in the alley outside while taking out the trash, and they were all sweaty and dirty, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Some traditions just never die.

I take a shower, trying my best not to mess up the bathroom, and pick out my new favorite kimono to wear tonight. I bought this one a month ago with some extra money I had set aside. For having been passed down through so many consignment shops, the kimono is in excellent shape. I only had to repair a few ripped seams under the arms, and I consider that a blessing. The silk fabric is a lovely, bright amber with a darker burnt orange hashmark design that makes the freckles on my nose stand out.

I have to admit I'm quite attached to those freckles. They remind me of my mother. My mother was Japanese. From her I got my most favorite features including my straight black hair and the freckles. She also gave me her thin figure which I was fine with until two years ago. My Aunt Kimie says I look just like her. My father gave me his wit that always makes Aunt Lomo laugh, his English pale skin, rounder eyes, and the temper I have to keep in check at all times.

Once I've twisted my hair back in a knot, put on a little makeup from Aunt Lomo's beauty stash, and pulled on the white _tabi_ socks, Aunt Kimie comes into my room through the rice paper screen and helps me into my kimono.

"Ah, Sanaa-chan. Twenty. Where does the time go? You're so grown-up now."

She sniffs and, oh boy, she's stopping herself from crying again. I give her a quick hug.

"Don't cry, Aunt Kimie. You do this every year."

"Don't make fun of your aunt's New Year's Eve tradition, Sanaa-chan," Aunt Lomo calls from the other room, and we both laugh.

Aunt Kimie turns to my wall drawers and opens the top one she knows contains the obis. "Which one? The cream?"

" _Hai._ " Yes, I love the cream colored obi with the fan design. This was also my mother's, one of the many things I inherited from my parents when they died. Aunt Kimie wraps the long, heavy silk around me and ties a drum bow in back before wrapping an _obijime_ around my waist. She hands me a fan I tuck in to the front, in case the evening gets hot.

Aunt Kimie smiles at me and sighs, giving my face a soft pat. "Have fun tonight. Be a good girl. Eat a lot of food and don't drink too much."

"Auntie," I say with a groan. "Aren't I always responsible?"

" _Mochiron._ Still. You know I always say it."

I purposely leave my everyday bag with my tablet in my room, grab my small red silk purse, slip into my _geta_ at the door, and wave as I head out for the night.

"Don't wait up!"

The streets of Ku 9 are filled with people. This may be the Science and Engineering Ward but the local council always sponsors gatherings here for those who don't want to travel on New Year's Eve. The sidewalks are a colorful, moving wall of people in kimonos and other citizens in normal Nishikyō wear, the double-breasted gray tunic shirts over loose pants of the same material break up the assault of bright colors swirling around me. I edge past a young couple carrying a small boy who is dressed up in his own little kimono and _hakama_ pants (he is adorable) and head directly down into the transitway before I get sucked into people watching.

Ku 7, the Entertainment Ward where Miko's family _izakaya_ is located, is two wards away. It's not a long ride on the train, but so many people are heading to Ku 6, the Japanese Ward, that the cars are filled to the brim. I have to wait for two trains to go by and hope I can get on the next one.

Ugh, I'm going to be late. I hate being late.

I check the tunnel over and over until a train finally comes. Nishikyō Transitway Authority runs more trains this time of year but it's never enough. With the possibility of having to shuttle around over six million people on the biggest holiday of the year, you'd think they'd run the trains non-stop. Have they learned nothing in the past three hundred years? Apparently not because these big holiday delays happen again and again.

When I finally get on a train, it makes every stop between Ku 9, Ku 8 (the Extinction Ward where people in normal work clothes get off the train to work), and then Ku 7 where I exit at the second stop and head straight for the izakaya.

Most days Izakaya Tanaka does normal business from 10:00am to 3:00am. It's a long day but izakaya staff and Nishikyō workers on multiple shifts enter and leave at all hours. Night and day have no meaning when the city needs regular maintenance. Even though the lights brighten and dim to maintain normal circadian rhythms, your night is someone else's day and vice versa. It's not like anyone sees regular sunlight anyway. The domes that protect us from the elements block out all light and most radiation.

Stepping up to the large picture window at the front of Izakaya Tanaka, I tap on the glass and wave my fingers at Helena who is standing right inside. She jumps up and down with a girlish scream, _sake_ sloshing out of the cup in her hand.

" _Irrashiamase!_ " All the staff shout welcoming me as I walk through the door.

" _Konbanwa._ " I say back as Helena jumps at me with a forceful hug.

"Happy birthday, Sanaa-chan!" Helena's face is bright and gleeful. She's probably been laughing and chatting up these people standing right by the door for some time. She's so outgoing and, gods, so tall! My neck hurts looking up at her sometimes, but I'm a measly 160 centimeters tall and she's at least 180 centimeters. Tonight she's twisted her long, blond, curly hair up and is wearing a bright pink kimono which suits her pale complexion nicely. Her cheeks are a little flushed, but that could be the sake too.

"Thanks, sweetie. You look gorgeous, as usual. Where's Miko?"

"Behind the bar with Sono. Where else? Anyway, you're late. I thought you'd be here by 7:30? I was ready to call in a search team." Helena knows how much I hate being late.

"Trains were packed, and Aunt Kimie was giving me the sad eyes as I was on my way out."

"She helped you get dressed? Your new kimono is lovely. _Utsukushii desu ne!_ "

"Thanks," I say while smoothing out the front. The hurried walk from the train loosened up the obi a little. I hope the bow holds up all night. "Let's go talk to Miko. Maybe if we're loud enough the men sitting at the bar will leave."

The place is packed, and it's only 8:00pm, a long way to midnight. I think the staff is going to have to start queuing people up outside soon because they will overflow capacity at any moment. Looking over at the string of private rooms along the side wall, I can tell by the shadows on the rice paper screens they are all occupied. Usually Miko's parents open them up on New Year's Eve to accommodate more people, so the rooms won't be occupied for much longer.

We push our way through the crowd saying " _sumimasen_ " and smiling over and over again. Miko is barely visible over the top of the bar. She must be back there unloading multiple boxes of sake. They will need it tonight. Standing between two men, I lean as far over the bar as possible without letting my feet leave the ground.

"Miko-chan!" I yell while I reach out and tap her on the head.

She pops up with a big smile, her chin length straight black hair getting caught across her face in the movement.

"Sanaa-chan, _Otanjōbi omedetō_!"

" _Arigatō_. Hey, where are your parents?"

Miko crouches back down and unloads the last of the sake from the boxes. She always works New Year's Eve until her mother relieves her at around 11:00, but Miko never tends bar. The legal drinking age, and age of adulthood, is twenty in Nishikyō, and she is more than able to tend since she turned twenty-one two months ago, but she has a heavy hand and has declared herself "terrible at it." They leave the bar to Sono.

"Mother is at home. She was cleaning today, of course, and she knocked into something under the sink and water went everywhere. You can only imagine how that made her feel on New Year's Eve."

Yes, indeed. Miko's mother is a real worrywart. Miko rolls her eyes at me, and I smile. We're all pretty immune to Mrs. Tanaka's constant nagging at Miko — first, when she was in school, to get good grades, and, now, to find a nice boy before she dies an old maid. Miko recently had her hair cut to a short chin bob with a fierce line of bangs across her face, and the change from long hair to short nearly sent her mother into a fit. That's probably why Miko did it, though.

"Anyway," Miko continues after she hands off bottles to Sono, "so she's back at the apartment with maintenance and will be here later to relieve me of my hostess duties. My father is in there..." She points to the nearest private room. "With two men I've never seen before and two cute brothers around our age." Her face lightens up, a twinkle in her eye. Miko is a serial dater. I think she's had at least twelve boyfriends already. Twelve boyfriends she never introduced to her parents hence her mother's "old maid" worries. Amazingly enough, she is unattached right now. (Those boyfriends don't last long.) "It's New Year's Eve. Let's get ourselves some boys."

I can almost imagine Miko rubbing her hands together and plotting ways to interfere on this meeting, and I'm inclined to let her. I haven't had a steady boyfriend in two years and little opportunity to date since I started working full-time. My work friend, Chad, and I meet up at a love hotel once a month or so for drinking and just sex, but it's not the same as really dating. Watching Miko go out and have a good time makes me realize what I'm missing out on. A New Year's Eve boy would be fun and exciting. Fun and exciting is what I want this year.

"Miko, you're ruthless! What about me?" Helena pouts and drops her head.

"We'll find someone for you, too. It's a magical night. Anything can happen." She wipes her hands off on a bar towel and smooths out her kimono. She's wearing her favorite jade green kimono tonight, but her purple and gray obi is new, a birthday gift from her father. Mr. Tanaka spoils her, and she takes full advantage of it. They're a tight family. Miko's taking over Izakaya Tanaka before her family leaves for Yūsei, our colonization planet, and will hopefully open a similar place on our new home world if they can get the permit. They've been working on the negotiations for years.

"Let me come around the bar and get a good look at you. You're wearing your new kimono." She scans me from top to toes before giving me a hug. "I love it. Orange is the perfect color for you." Even Miko towers over me though she's only about 10 centimeters taller. I feel small when I'm not sitting down next to them. "Helena's already been here an hour, and, as soon as these two men clear out from the end of the bar, those seats are yours." Miko turns and eyes the men sitting right behind us, and they laugh at her.

"Okay, okay, Miko-chan. We have a party to go to anyway." They get up to leave, smiling sweetly at her. Bet they were thinking they would try to make Miko their New Year's Eve date.

As Helena and I take our seats with Miko at our back, the private room behind us opens up, and we turn to look. Mr. Tanaka emerges in his traditional gray kimono and black hakama pants with two men in their mid-forties right behind him. Both are wearing black kimono with family crests on them and black hakama pants but one has longer, graying hair tied back in a ponytail, and the other's hair is short, cropped and gray, and he has a distinct scar on his chin.

Mr. Tanaka bows to them, and they bow back. Behind these two men are the brothers our age Miko referred to earlier. The older one is around twenty-four or twenty-five and his brother a few years younger. Yes, Miko, they are definitely cute but the younger one is more my type. He is seriously handsome with longer, floppier hair than his older brother, a strong chin, and what looks like a white streak in his hair just over his ear. He reaches up and tucks his hair back before turning and spying the three girls staring from the bar.

"What did I tell you?" Miko whispers. "The older one's mine." A slow, seductive smile comes over her face, and I do my very best not to roll my eyes. Miko has her sights set on him. He's done for.

But I'm watching the younger brother. Yes, just my type, I can tell already. Strong and confident in the way he holds himself. I love longer hair on men, and that black kimono. Sigh. I love men in kimono. His eyes are on me and now that we're staring at each other, my breath is slowing, slowing, slowing down until I'm holding it and not breathing at all. I don't blink. I don't move. I am completely entranced.

"It's a good thing neither of these two are my type," Helena whispers at me, but I barely hear her. The younger one has turned from me at the behest of one of the other men, the two brothers bow to Miko's father, and turn to exit the izakaya through the back door. No! Wait!

No, wait. He's looking at me again before he goes. Did I say that out loud? I don't know. Smile, Sanaa.

I smile, trying not to be too eager nor too subtle. I'm usually at one end of the spectrum or the other and know nothing of moderation. Moderation? What's that? No clue.

A smile brightens his face for a moment, but he's gone. They're all gone.

"Whaaaa... Who are they?" I ask Miko. I must know. Those few moments made me unable to speak properly.

Miko shakes her head. "I have no idea but I'm going to find out."

* * *

I stare after Miko as she follows her father to the back office. She won't be gone long. The place is too packed with people to neglect the staff on a busy night like this.

"Sanaa-chan?" Helena snaps her fingers in front of me. "Wow, look at the spell that came over you."

Heat rises to my face, and I wish the izakaya was a little cooler. Reaching into my obi, I pull out the fan I placed in the folds after Aunt Kimie wrapped me up, open it, and fan myself until I feel calmer. His face is now permanently burned into my memory.

"Sake and food would be good about now," I say as I motion to Sono. Sono's been working at the izakaya for the past eight years. He's a sweet man, close to sixty years old, who refuses to stop working. And why would he when he has the best memory for faces and what they like to drink?

"Happy birthday," he says as he leans forward and gives me a peck on the cheek. "Tofu teriyaki, rice, and _daiginjo_ sake?" Sono always suggests I drink the highest grade sake on my birthday, and I have for the past two years. I shouldn't have been drinking illegally, but I love sake. Aunt Kimie and Mrs. Tanaka came to an agreement that I could drink at the izakaya as long as I never got sick drunk. I kept a strict eye on how much I consumed so I wouldn't have the privilege taken away. Now I'm an adult.

"Mochiron." I tap on the bar and indicate to Sono the food should be hastened. I need a distraction from the handsome one I had a mental affair with in the span of ten seconds.

"Same for me, Sono," Helena says and then lowers her voice to whisper, "bring the sake first. I think Sanaa may need it."

Without moving left or right, he reaches down into the bar back and puts two small cups on the counter and a whole chilled bottle of sake between them. That man is always prepared. " _Kanpai_ , ladies."

Helena pours sake for us both and lifts her glass. I match mine to hers. "Happy Birthday and Happy New Year."

"You, too, Helena."

"Kanpai!" We clink glasses and drink. Delicious.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so distracted by a guy before. Not even Chad."

I blink and try to pull myself out of my head. "Well, Chad's just my work friend. We're not dating." Helena raises her eyebrows at me, and I burst into a laugh before taking another sip. "I don't consider sex once a month dating, especially since I have no feelings for him... at all. And I could never date someone I worked with again. Remember Joshua? _Tonde mo nai!_ What a mess that was. Anyway, Chad and I are not even remotely compatible."

I have only ever been seriously interested in one guy before tonight (Chad doesn't count). Joshua, another guy I was head-over-heels in love with when I first started working, was a six month trial of patience. He had two distinct personalities: eager to get into my kimono or barely knew I existed. He'd take me out to the movies, to the love hotel where he'd be so eager for sex he wouldn't even take my clothes off, and then the next day, wouldn't acknowledge my presence. It was maddening. I would think I was being used for sex then he would declare he loved me in front of our friends. Two days later, he'd blow me off. Finally, I told Joshua to go to hell, and he started dating someone new the very next day. What an asshole.

I tap my foot, nervous energy bubbling over down my arms and legs, straight to my hands and feet. When is Miko coming back?

Helena is eyeing me, and, as she's about to needle me more, Miko returns to us.

"It's as I suspected," she says, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes. "A few weeks ago, my parents were talking about getting an _omiai_ involved in my love life."

"What?" Helena and I both say at the same time. Why would Miko need a matchmaker?

"Yeah. You know mother and her crazy idea I'm going to die an old maid. Well, I said, 'Fine, yes, hire the damned omiai and we'll see where it gets us.' That," she points to the empty room, "is where it gets us."

"Really? They're arranging a marriage for you?" Helena pales, her eyes wide.

"No, no. Just some dates, but..." She stops and thinks for a second with a faraway look in her eye. "He is kind of cute, _ne_? And from an influential family. Hmmm."

The wheels are turning in Miko's head. Influence is good when you run a place like Izakaya Tanaka. She may have better luck getting the permit they need for colonization with help from his influential family.

"What about the brother?" I ask, and I hope I don't sound desperate at all because, boy, do I suddenly feel desperate. I should have gotten up and talked to him, or something! Anything. But the moment was over so quick.

Miko smiles at me. She's been trying to set me up on blind dates for a year now. She keeps thinking I'm stuck on Chad, which I'm not. I just don't want hurt his feelings. Miko is remarkably good at reading minds.

"The older one is Yoichi. He's twenty-four. The younger one is Jiro. He's twenty-two."

Jiro.

Now I have a name.

"My father suggested they come back after midnight so I can meet him. 'Firsts of the New Year' and all that. I never knew my father was such a sap." But by the way her shoulders melt a little and her breath puffs out, I can tell she knew this already. She only needs to think about how her father has always doted on her.

"Firsts of the New Year" are all of the traditions we do on New Year's Day to make the year go smoothly. I may not have grown up in Ku 6, the Japanese Ward where the majority of Japanese in Nishikyō live, but my aunts have kept some of these rituals alive in our home. Like the extensive cleaning we do before New Year's Eve and our first temple visit tomorrow, hatsumōde, we have also put much stock in the other New Year's traditions. Each year we eat our first dinner together on New Year's Day, and I sit down to write the first letter of the year to each of my aunts on my beloved rice paper stationery. I wrote them my first letter when I was almost five and it was mostly scribbles, but I know Aunt Kimie and Lomo have kept every single one of them hidden away in their drawers as if they were sacred poetry.

So it's possible I may see Jiro again after midnight. I will have to keep my cool until then.

Miko goes back to work checking on the last occupied private room. After a minute of silent sake drinking, Sono arrives with our food. The kitchen staff is fast tonight.

While we make our way through our tofu and rice, Helena and I talk about work. As kids, we both enrolled in the city fast-tracking education so we could earn more as young adults and enter the work force early. She was originally going to be a doctor but she faints at the sight of blood, so she chose massage therapy. I chose to be an engineer like my father. My mother, a chemist, was also intelligent like my father. They died in an explosion before I turned two, a completely freak accident.

"I haven't seen you around the past two weeks, and it's winter break for most of us," Helena says pushing her plate aside.

"I volunteered to cover other people's shifts. You know my aunts don't do anything for Christmas anymore."

" _I_ would have liked to see you."

Helena's parents are such a mystery to me. She still lives at home because they are never around, very much in their own world. Helena spends a lot of time with Miko when I'm busy, and I wish I could be here at the izakaya more often.

"I know. I should have taken the day off anyway. Work was stupidly boring with no one around. I ended up babysitting some lab work on composite material while working on schematics." I fill up our cups again.

On the fast-track, I threw myself into my studies as hard as I could so I could get a job on the Colonization Committee, and I love it there. I may not have had the biggest social life on record but I'm pretty pleased with how well I did for myself. Since I'm settled in, I want something fun to happen this year now that I'm an adult. I have about an hour to think about what I'll wish for at midnight, but I think I'm going to wish for love this time instead of prosperity. Prosperity has gotten me pretty far already.

Our attention is brought to the door as the staff all shout "Konbanwa!" to Miko's mother. She enters the izakaya in a flash of dark red kimono, her short, graying hair perfectly swept back in a beautiful silver comb.

"Girls," she says, approaching us. "Otanjōbi omedetō, Sanaa-chan." She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. "You've grown up into such a fine, young woman. Kimie and Lomo must be very proud."

"Arigatō gozaimasu, Mrs. Tanaka." She has always insisted on us calling her and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka, though I've tried to call her Tanaka-san on occasion. I think she likes the westernization a little bit more.

Miko comes out of the kitchen and bows slightly to her mother before they embrace in a small hug. Mrs. Tanaka is much more formal than Miko's father.

"Miko-chan, I'm here to relieve you early. The restaurant is not too busy. You should spend the time now with Sanaa and Helena."

Helena and I were so absorbed in our conversation we didn't realize the bar has quieted. This happens every year right before midnight. The majority of people eat and drink up and then head out to spend the last hour before the New Year at a temple or private party.

In long-standing tradition, Miko, Helena, and I will stay here till around 12:30 and then visit the little neighborhood shrine two blocks over before Helena and I head home for the night. Miko will stay behind and help with any stragglers until they close up at 3:00.

Instead of moving to a booth from the bar, we snag the last open private room, and Miko invites in the young guys who were at the bar to come sit with us. A few more girls show up from the shops down the street, and they join us too. But I park myself next to Helena, nod, smile, and do my best to make small talk because I am definitely not interested in any of these guys. I am daydreaming and wondering where Jiro and the other men went to after they left the izakaya.

Helena catches sight of the clock on the wall, and one of the guys reaches into his bag, pulls out his tablet, and tunes to the Nishikyō News Service. They are already streaming the midnight countdown from Ku 1. A huge crowd of people mill about the Administrative Ward's central plaza, decked out in every possible kind of party clothes, but mostly kimono since Nishikyō is seventy percent Japanese.

Only three minutes left in the year 3102. I've decided I've been prosperous enough. This year I will wish for love, and I'll make sure that I don't look at any of these guys when I do because, oh gods, not in a million years. I'm not kissing any of them when the clock strikes 12:00. No, thank you.

One minute left and Miko is filling up cups around the table. Helena is tucking wayward strands of hair back into her twist. I am replaying those ten seconds of eye contact with the mysterious Jiro in my head again. Obsessing. I'm already obsessing over it.

Twenty seconds left in 3102. I'll be twenty years old. I can move out and get my own place soon, and in two years, I'll be on a ship and hibernating for the long voyage to Yūsei.

Five seconds left. Four, three, two, one.

"Happy New Year! _Akemashite omedetō!_ " We all clink glasses and drink. Miko, Helena, and I get involved in a three-way group hug that makes us laugh and laugh. I'm glad I didn't have to make eye contact with any of the guys at the table because I love these two the most.

"Wishes," Miko whispers at each of us.

We close our eyes, bow forward a little, and clap our hands in front of our face twice in a prayer position.

Please, gods, bring me love and happiness this year. Bring us all love, excitement, and happiness this year. Surely, we deserve it.

Mark Sakai was my favorite character because I found him a mystery all the way to the end of the series. He came into the story in his forties, and he had a significant history with Sanaa's mother. I loved Sanaa and Jiro, but I loved writing Mark more because he'd been through so much in his life and he was still swinging. He lived by honor and his family duty even if everyone around him mutinied. I loved him so much that I know I'll have to write a prequel from his perspective. Getting into his head will be messy but enjoyable work.

You can buy _Removed_here.

Stephanie (S. J.) is a writer, knitter, amateur astrologer, Capricorn, and Japanophile. She loves foxes, owls, sushi, yoga pants, Evernote, and black tea. When she's not writing, she's thinking about writing or spending time outside, unless it's winter. She hates winter. Someday she'll own a house in both hemispheres so she can avoid the season entirely. She's a mom to two great kids and lives with her husband and family outside NYC. They have no pets. Yet. When it comes to her work, expect the unexpected. She doesn't write anything typical.

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# Morgan's Choice by Greta van der Rol

# About Morgan's Choice

_S omewhere out in space, humanity's past is about to catch up with its future._

When Morgan Selwood's spaceship is stranded in unknown space she is relieved to be rescued by humanoid aliens. But her unusual appearance and her extraordinary technical abilities mean that everybody wants a piece of her. Who's it to be? Autocratic Admiral Ravindra, who press-gangs her to help against a shadowy threat from the stars, or the freedom fighters who think she's a legend reincarnated, returned to help them throw off the yoke of oppression?

Morgan doesn't much care which it is until the uprising and the atrocities start. While civil war rages across the planet the shadowy threat from the stars emerges as an implacable killer bent on destroying all intelligent life. Morgan will need every bit of her superhuman, bio-engineered intelligence to save the man she has come to love and his people from annihilation. And spare a little to save herself.

I love to write books about smokin' hot admirals, and this is exactly that. Ravindra is the epitome of an alpha male – he doesn't need those insignia on his shoulder boards to ooze authority. He's born to rule. But he has never come across a woman like Morgan Selwood. She despises authority and because her talents made her indispensable, she could get away with it – in her own part of the galaxy. But, as Ravindra tells her more than once, she is not where she came from. If they are to work together, these two alpha personalities are going to have to find common ground and compromise.

This book is the second of the Morgan Selwood series. The first tells a little of Morgan's backstory. You'll find information about all five books (three novelettes and two full length novels) at my website. I hope you'll enjoy reading about Morgan and Ravindra's adventures as much as I enjoyed writing them.

You can buy _Morgan's Choice_here. (Also available in print.)

Greta van der Rol loves writing action-packed adventures with a side salad of romance. Most of her work is space opera, but she has written paranormal and historical fiction.

She lives not far from the coast in Queensland, Australia and enjoys photography and cooking when she isn't bent over the computer. She has a degree in history and a background in building information systems, both of which go a long way toward helping her in her writing endeavours. You'll find her online at on her website.

# Sample of Morgan's Choice

1.

**S** team rose from Jones' food pack, filling _Curlew's_ tiny common room with the aroma of beef stew. "That's one month down." He took the container out of the warmer and brought it the two steps to the table.

Morgan glanced up at him, still chewing, as he sank down on the bench opposite. She swallowed her own food. "Yeah."

One month's worth of the existing food supply gone. Another month, maybe a little longer if they rationed even further and then perhaps they'd be fishing Tariq's body out of the cargo hold, wondering if a bit of cannibalism might be in order. The thought made her gag but at least it was an option. Running out of air—that was something else altogether.

She speared some more synthetic plast-food from her own food pack and lifted it to her mouth.

A staccato bleeping shattered the silence.

She flung her fork on the table, leapt through the forward hatch into the bridge and dropped into the captain's chair, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and tension, hope and apprehension. She flicked off the wide-range scanner's alarm and reached into the computer system with her mind to adjust the sensors to maximum magnification. Something had just come out of shift-space close enough to trigger the warning. Maybe she'd got it all wrong and _Curlew_ was still in Coalition space. Because otherwise...

In a fraction of a millisecond she'd loaded the ships' images into her implant, extrapolated, rotated to adjust for angle of approach, measured. The largest of the three ships was two point one five times _Curlew's_ length, but it had a quite different profile, long and angular. No bulky cargo hold, so not a freighter. The two smaller ships were more recognizable, if unfamiliar; small ships with narrow profiles shaped a little like arrow heads. Short wings, so they'd probably be capable of atmospheric flight. She checked against the ship database on her implant. Unknown ships, unknown origin. A worm of apprehension twisted in her belly. Stupid. What had she expected? Of course they weren't Coalition ships. _Curlew_ had plummeted so far beyond known space the navigation system was as useless as the shift drive.

One thing for sure—the ships were headed this way.

The red numbers on the view screen counted down time until intercept. Twenty-four minutes, thirty seconds... twenty seconds... ten seconds. Until they reached here. And then what? Whatever it was, it was better than dead. Surely.

"Are they ours?" Jones' voice startled her. He sat in the navigator's seat on the other side of the bridge, gripping the arm rests with rigid fingers. He'd better keep his hands off the controls.

"No. At least, they're not Coalition ships."

"Shit."

His Adams's apple bobbed. He might be a prat but he wasn't stupid. No non-Coalition worlds had spaceships worthy of the name. And yes, she was scared, too.

Were those ships manned? Maybe 'occupied' was a better word. Wriggly green things with three heads? Energy beings? What other aliens had she ever seen on the holovids? She tried to lick her lips but her mouth was dry. Hard to imagine that she might be the first woman to encounter an intelligent alien. Let's hope she lived to tell the tale, maybe end up in somebody's history book. She rolled her shoulders to loosen up tense muscles. "Better suit up."

She pulled a survival suit out of the compartment in the bulkhead next to her and scrambled into it with practiced ease, while Jones struggled with the fastenings on the front of his suit. She helped him fit the helmet over his shoulders. He clamped it in place; the instrument lights reflected in the curved transplex, distorting his features. He mashed his lips, as nervous as she was.

Five minutes until intercept.

The fighters were visible without magnification now, dark shapes in front of the starscape, one slightly behind the other. The view screen showed them in color; grey, like their larger companion.

Using her implant, she magnified the image of the protuberances jutting from both short wings. Muzzles? The twinge of apprehension in her gut strengthened. Surely they wouldn't just destroy _Curlew_?

The fighters closed in, one on each side, circling around the freighter. Like sharks around prey.

She opened a communication channel. "This is Coalition freighter _Curlew_. We require assistance. Can you help? Over."

Silence.

She tried again, on a broader channel that might include the on-coming larger ship.

Still nothing.

She flexed sweaty fingers inside her gloves.

The larger alien craft edged closer, the blunt nose growing in the view screen. The ship had adjusted its course so that it was running over the top of _Curlew_. Closer it came and closer, its hull clearly visible in the view screen. Scarred and battered. Not a new ship. And were those hatches all along its length?

Jones peered up as if trying to see inside the ship. His eyes were very blue and wide with fear. She probably looked the same.

A muffled clunk reverberated through the hull. Jones jumped. Morgan pushed down a surge of adrenalin and checked the sensor data. A rigid connection extended from a hatch in the alien vessel to the top of _Curlew's_ cargo hold.

"What are they doing?" he said.

The two fighters took up position, one on either side of the larger ship. She felt _Curlew_ lurch a little as they changed direction and then they were underway, suspended beneath the belly of an alien vessel like prey being returned to the village after the hunt.

"They've kind of taken us in tow," she said.

He grabbed her arm, his panicked fingers pressing hard against the sleeve of her suit. "What are you going to do about it?" His voice was a rasp.

She snatched her arm away. "I'm going to shut down the engines."

The soft grumble of the sub-light drive died away, leaving only the sound of her own breathing and the thundering of her heart.

"But—"

Oh, good grief. _What did I do to get stuck with this idiot?_ "Do you want to hold out for a better offer? One more month and we're dead, Jones. Finished. Starved to death, out of air." She thrust out a hand, pointing to the cargo hold. "Couple of months we'll be mummified, just like Tariq. I'd rather take my chances here."

He backed off, mashing his lips.

A familiar shimmer of energy appeared on the screen, away in the distance. Morgan aimed the sensors, magnified. Sure enough. "Another ship just came out of shift-space, heading this way." She checked the preliminary data. Wow. "That thing's enormous. It's five klicks long. And I reckon it's a warship."

"Why?"

Save her from fucking accountants. She had to explain everything. "It's huge, it's dark with minimal running lights and it's very, very fast." She glanced at the data. The ship above them was speeding up. What could that mean?

The sensors identified twelve rapidly moving pinpricks traveling in formation; a squadron of the warship's own fighters? She increased the magnification; black, rectangular. The two fighters shadowing _Curlew_ changed vector, on an intercept course with the new players.

Six of the black fighters peeled off to engage the two grey fighters. But the other six continued in pursuit of the larger vessel and _Curlew_. In moments a brief, brilliant explosion marked the end of one of the two arrowhead fighters. Its companion lasted a little longer until it, too, exploded into a ball of fragments and energy. The attacking ships' shields sparkled as the debris impacted and disintegrated.

Morgan felt, rather than heard the alien ship above them release the link. The vessel's hull seemed to slip backwards as _Curlew_ continued its momentum.

"They've let go." Jones' voice oozed relief.

"You don't say?"

She watched its progress on the rear sensors as the long grey shape receded behind _Curlew_ , pivoted and powered away, its engines glowing yellow-white, toward the squadron of fighters from the warship. Strange. It couldn't hope to win a battle at those odds. If she didn't know better she could almost imagine the ship was trying to protect _Curlew_. That prospect sent her heart into overdrive. Why would the freighter _need_ protecting from the new arrivals?

She brought the ship's drive back up to readiness and strengthened the shields. Best get out of the way and hope _Curlew_ wasn't going to be a target, too.

The fighters approached, six growing rectangles. She could see details, now. A cylindrical body down the center, angled down wingtips, tubes slung under the wings. If they were going to engage it would be soon. Two more followed, fresh from destroying the grey fighters, Oh, fuck. Morgan held her breath. The six slowed down, intent on the long grey ship. But the other two swept on to match vector with _Curlew_ , one on each side. Nobody was firing. Yet.

The larger ship angled itself with surprising agility to meet the attack, shifting position from minute to minute. Gun turrets appeared like spines, protruding all along its hull. They fired in line, blasts of beams shooting out at the attacking fighters. If it had been a fireworks display, it might have been pretty. Shields flared blue as the attackers took evasive action and regrouped.

The grey ship shifted position again, rotating on an axis. A missile seared past, then exploded as a beam from the defending ship hit it. Deflections spattered against _Curlew's_ shields, enough to start an amber warning light flashing in the bridge.

Morgan considered easing _Curlew_ a bit further away but the two sentinel ships hadn't moved. Another complicated maneuver brought the gray ship closer to _Curlew_. A bay opened in its hull. Oh, fuck, they'd fired a missile. Her heart thundered. No, not at _Curlew_ —at one of the guard ships. The explosion sprayed all over the fighter's shields and ricocheted to _Curlew_. The shields put on a light show of sparks. The amber light on the console turned red. Rear shield down to seventy-eight percent. Shit, that was all she needed; destroyed as collateral damage. She diverted power to the shield generator.

Two of the attackers fired two missiles each, four hunters tracking for a kill. The grey ship finished one but it couldn't dodge them all. The first hit weakened the shields; the next two finished her. Radiation and debris from the explosion flowed past _Curlew,_ causing the shields to light up like an advertising display in downtown Torreno. The warning system brayed an alert to go with the flashing red light. She turned off the alarms.

Only _Curlew_ left. She would have swallowed if her mouth wasn't so dry. A trickle of sweat oozed past her hairline. Still the two fighters shadowed the freighter.

A voice. A tremor surged through Morgan's body.

She couldn't understand the words but the cadence was almost recognizable. A business-like voice, issuing calm instructions which probably translated as something like 'this is warship whatever. Identify yourself.'

"This is Coalition freighter _Curlew_. We need help." For what it was worth, she transmitted _Curlew's_ identification sequence.

She counted her heartbeats; one, two, three, four. She'd heard words, not unintelligible hisses or clicks. Words, she was sure of it. The voice spoke again. It sounded like an instruction. But what? _Think, Morgan, think. What would they want?_

The fighter to the left of _Curlew_ took up position in front and the one to the right dropped around behind, edging close. The voice spoke again, a few more unintelligible words.

Best guess would be 'come with me'. She engaged the drive and matched speed and course with the leading fighter.

Not ten klicks away, the warship's huge bulk took up the entire display on the view screen. The profile looked narrow but that was only because of the vessel's length. Two-thirds of the way along its length and down to its stern a second level jutted above the first.

The leading fighter slowed to a stop. Another unintelligible command. She shut down the engines and hoped Jones wouldn't notice her hands shaking. Nope. He was too scared to notice anything.

"What now?" he asked.

"Why ask me? How the fuck would I know? They could be strange, flesh-eating beings with three heads who eat humans for dinner. Maybe we'll be on the menu."

He scowled. "Why do you always try to make a joke when it's serious?"

"It may not be a joke. If it's not the Coalition and it's not the Festive Fairy..." A shudder ran through _Curlew's_ hull. "Hang on. They're bringing us on board. That was their grav beam catching on."

2.

**_C_** _urlew_ moved steadily toward the massive warship. Morgan thought of a fisherman reeling in a catch, a fish gasping its life away on the deck. Best not to think too much. The real answers drew ever closer.

She glanced over at Jones, his face pale inside the helmet, his eyes fixed on their destination. He rubbed his gloved hands along the arm rests of his chair. Backwards and forwards; backwards and forwards. She felt the same way.

Soon all she could see in the view port was the warship's matte black side wall. They were headed for an open hatch, lit from within. An airlock, she supposed. _Curlew_ slowed down, drifting between stark grey walls. She deployed _Curlew's_ landing gear. The freighter would float, or if they had artificial gravity, she'd drop. Near the far wall the grav beam released. The landing pads clunked to the deck. The airlock's outside hatch slid shut at _Curlew's_ stern.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Jones sat rigid, jaw loose, eyes flicking around him.

Mauve light engulfed the ship.

He jumped. "What the fuck is that?"

She pushed down the panic. There had to be reasons. _Calm down. Use your brain, Morgan. Panic achieves nothing._ "Probably some sort of precaution against contamination." Coalition warships did something similar if they impounded pirate ships at home.

The light vanished.

Movement outside. A vehicle advanced across the deck, small to her eyes but who knew? She angled the sensors to track its progress. It stopped, extended a wide nozzle that changed shape to match the external hatch door and attached with a soft sucking sound. Her heart beat even faster, blood pounding in her neck.

"Selwood..." Jones' voice was a whisper, a plea.

"I don't know."

The hatch gave way. She'd already deactivated the locks. Vacuum doors thudded into place, reverberating in the silent ship. Why prolong it? If she made them fight their way in, they wouldn't be happy. Breathing deeply, she deactivated the safety sensors and retracted the doors.

Air blasted past her, howling out as if the ship had been holed in space. She gripped the arm rests.

Jones' mouth opened, his lips stretched back. "Ah, shit."

"They're releasing the atmosphere," she said between breaths, trying to bring her heart rate down. "They don't want it on their ship."

The gale dropped to a breeze, then nothing. The device released and trundled away. She checked the sensors for ship's internal environment. Vacuum.

Silence except for the too-fast hiss of her own breathing and the pounding of her heart within the envelope of a spacesuit. She stared at the visuals.

A hatch opened in the airlock. Figures entered the space around the ship. Humanoid. Two arms, two legs, one head. Oh, man. She couldn't see features; they all wore darkened, full-face helmets and they were dressed in black. If they were human, she would have said they wore body armor, stiff and bulky. But maybe that's how they were. They were certainly very big, well over two meters tall.

Four of them approached the forward hatch.

This was it.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she shared a quick glance with Jones. Scared. Sure, she was scared, too. Terrified. _Let's meet the locals, Morgan. And keep remembering, without them your lifespan was weeks._

Two aliens eased into the ship, weapons poised, suspicious, while the other two covered. She watched them through the sensors, prowling along the corridors, easing open hatches, conferring in the common room where the remnants of that last interrupted meal still stood on the table.

Soon enough a trooper appeared at the bridge hatch. He had to duck his head to get through. At least she assumed the trooper was male; there was no way to tell. He gestured, a flick of the wrist with a short-barreled weapon held in one massive hand.

"Time to go Jones," Morgan murmured. She stood, carefully placing her hands on top of her helmet.

The trooper squeezed into the compartment away from the entrance to let them go before him. She walked along to the forward hatch and down the ramp onto the warship's deck. Grey walls, low lighting levels, hard floors. A row of troopers waited, weapons held in both hands.

A sharp shove in the back from their escort impelled her toward an open doorway. She stumbled into a low-roofed, windowless compartment with bench seats on either side, Jones behind her. Both of them swayed as whatever they were in began to move. Some sort of isolation vehicle. She checked the suit's sensor data. Yes, still in vacuum. But the gas levels were rising. They were airing up in here. Nitrogen, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide. Pretty much the same as home.

"What will they do to us?" Jones said, perching himself on a bench.

"How the fuck should I know? Just keep remembering, it's got to be better than waiting to die in _Curlew_."

"Does it?"

He had a point but she wasn't going to tell _him_ that.

"Just... be polite, do as you're told."

Jones' lip curled. " _You're_ telling _me_?

She looked away. Smartarse.

"Well, come on," he said. "Surely you can tell something about them, Supertech. You can get into their computer systems, can't you?"

She scowled. It was always the same. 'You're a Supertech—wave your magic wand'. "They're alien systems. They won't work the same as ours. I'll work it out but it'll take me a while."

The vehicle stopped. She lurched as it reversed. Then the door slid open. One of the big troopers leaned in and gestured. Get out. Just her. A sharp order enforced with the muzzle of his weapon had Jones sagging back onto the bench.

She clambered down the step into an enclosed room, white walls, all curved. Behind her, the door snicked shut. She gazed around her. Featureless. Not even a sensor in the walls. A door in the opposite wall swished aside to reveal two people dressed in white protective clothing. Like the troopers they were humanoid but not as tall and bulky. Helmets with transparent face plates covered their heads. The faces looked human, dark skin, straight noses, black hair, two ears, two eyes—all very familiar except for something about the eyes. She enhanced the image, processing out the reflection of the room lights. Their eyes had no whites, different pupils; eyes like cats or lizards.

One of them came in, took her arm and led her into what looked like a laboratory, the walls lined with cabinets, benches with troughs set in, trays full of equipment.

The hand on her arm had four fingers, opposable thumb. _Just like us_. If these guys were human, the owner of the hand would probably be female. Her taller companion issued an instruction. Morgan met his gaze and shrugged, hands raised, palms up. _I don't know what you want_. He stiffened, legs apart. Angry? What had she done wrong? The other person bowed from the waist and said something to him that seemed to mollify him. She turned to Morgan, smiled and acted out removing her helmet. She moved both open hands toward her face, breathing in, smiling.

_She's saying it's safe, I can breathe here._

Morgan checked the sensor data from the suit again. Atmospheric gas mix about the same as Coalition worlds. Ambient temperature comfortable. Air she could breathe. They must know that. Maybe they did an analysis on the air they sucked out of _Curlew_? The meter on the air pack registered about half full, so she could exist in this suit for another three hours or so. But then, what was the point?

She unclamped her helmet and lifted it, ready to shove it down again if she had to. A breath, then another. A little warmer, moister than she was used to but still with that scrubbed spaceship tang. She held out the helmet. The man took it from her and placed it on a trolley. The woman smiled encouragement and mimed taking off her clothes. Morgan complied. Suit first, then boots, shirt, trousers, underwear.

The woman brought out a trolley carrying a tray of instruments. Needles, little bottles, instruments she'd never seen. _Just another physical. I hope_. She stood quietly, heart beating a staccato, as they took their samples of body tissue, hair, blood. A sting in the back of her neck made her yelp. The woman made soothing noises while Morgan fingered a flat, circular object attached to her skin. She sensed a processor and checked. Alien technology. She didn't know how to read it. Some sort of controller? Something to collect data?

The male wheeled the trolley away while the female waved her hand, palm open, at a tall, narrow, semi-circular cylinder. Morgan eyed the thing. Was she supposed to get in there? Did this have something to do with the object on her neck? The woman said something, moved around behind her and pushed her between her shoulder blades. Caught off balance Morgan fell inside, hands against the opposite wall. Panic screamed up from her gut to her throat as the cylinder curved shut behind her. Bright light surrounded her. _Think, Morgan, think. Panic is useless._ A body scan? Maybe. A moment later, the light turned mauvish, like the light they'd used on the ship. She closed her eyes against the glare but she could still see red against her eyelids. She opened her eyes again when the door opened. Trembling with relief, she stumbled out, willing herself to breathe deeply while the sweat dried on her forehead.

The female tech, using both hands held out in front of her, offered Morgan a yellow garment that turned out to be a jump suit that fastened at the front. She pulled it on, fumbling to work out how they did the fastenings. The tech helped. Just bring the two sides together and it seals. Give this part a quick jerk and the seam opens. Too short in the legs and arms, baggy around her body. A pair of utilitarian slippers, nothing more than a sole with a cloth strap over the top, completed the outfit.

Dressed, Morgan shuffled behind the woman down a door-lined corridor. The tech stopped, pressed a panel to open a door and stood aside for her to enter another featureless room with no right-angles. More like a cell, really, four paces wide, four paces long, the sparse furnishings comprised a bunk bed attached to the wall, a small table and a built-in closet. She sniffed at the contents of a cylindrical container on the table and tasted with the tip of her tongue. Water. She hoped. She drank and made herself as comfortable as she could on the bunk, legs crossed at the ankle. Her fingers slid one more time to the device on the back of her neck and wondered what it did. She'd almost forgotten it was there,

Her treatment hadn't been so bad so far, although her heart still beat far too fast. They'd be checking the samples the medical people had taken for all sorts of things, especially unfamiliar viruses. Breathable air, comfortable temperature, bearable gravity. It might have been a Coalition Fleet ship. Only it wasn't.

They seemed to be very like humans, but then again, they may just look superficially similar. They might be quite different inside, reproduce differently, process food differently. She'd seen cases like that. Animals that looked for all the galaxy like first cousins, but turned out to be physiologically totally unrelated.

They would have found Tariq's body in the cargo hold. What would they make of that? And what would they do from here? Scenes from a silly holovid she'd watched as a kid replayed in her mind, bug-like aliens abducted humans and used them for experiments.

It didn't seem so silly now.

3.

**" T**his is amazing," Admiral Ravindra said, staring at the holographic scans of the three aliens. He sat back in his office chair. "Absolutely unbelievable. You could almost believe they were Manesan."

The images rotated before his eyes, a dead male, a live male and a live female. Two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears, one nose, one mouth. But while the dead male was dark-skinned and black-haired as a Manesan, the living male had wavy hair the color of dry grass and pale, almost white, skin. The woman was different again. Long, slightly curly hair; dark, but a little browner than black, maybe with a hint of red. Her skin was lighter than any Manesan, with a golden tinge and she had silver eyes, like mercury.

Ravindra exchanged a look with Captain Lomandra and his intelligence chief, Senior Commander Prasad. "Apart from skin and hair, what other differences are there between these beings and us?"

"Their eyes, _Srimana_." Prasad split the screen and zoomed in on each of the three alien's eyes.

Both men's eyes had a white ring around a colored iris and a round pupil. " _Bunyada_ would be very excited about the men's eyes," Prasad said, his lips quirking in a brief smile.

Indeed they would. "What does medical say about the woman's eyes?" Ravindra said.

"They appear to be artificial. X-rays do not penetrate. Just as with the _Yogin_."

Lomandra peered at the full body images turning slowly before him. "What's that in the men's heads, SenComm? There behind their left ears?"

The skin bulged noticeably in the indicated spot on both men, but not the woman. Prasad stopped the rotation, enhanced the image into a close-up of the heads and flipped the display to X-ray.

"The men have a circular object in that spot, fused to the skull, under the skin. The female has not."

Increasingly intriguing. The two masses in the woman's frontal lobes seemed almost to be a part of the living tissue, of an irregular shape with a network of tendrils extending from there to the rest of the brain. "This is foreign material?" Ravindra said.

"We can't be sure, _Srimana_ ," Prasad said. "But we believe so."

Ravindra scratched his ear. Foreign material in the head. Very strange. The one dead _Yogin_ they'd found had strange material in its head, too. But not like this.

"Artificial eyes, foreign material in their heads. Just like the _Yogina_ ," Lomandra said. "These beings must be in league with them. Perhaps they are like our Mirka, their commanders and the _Yogina_ are foot soldiers, equivalent to Shuba."

"There is much in what you say, Captain." Yet the history of the few _Yogin_ encounters so far had been quite different. They didn't ask questions, didn't attempt to communicate; they fought. They destroyed themselves rather than be captured. On this ship they had even disabled the vacuum doors. An elaborate ruse to gain his trust? If it was, they'd already failed.

"With respect, _Srimana_ ," Prasad interrupted, his voice clipped and unemotional, as usual. "There are marked differences between the two sets of aliens and their equipment. The only evidence we have to support the notion that they are related, is that the ships were encountered in company with each other."

Lomandra snorted his derision. "And artificial eyes and foreign matter in their heads."

"Show me this ship again, Prasad."

The intelligence chief produced an image of the alien vessel, little more than a large rectangular cargo bay with cramped crew quarters in a much smaller oval attached to the lower front, almost as an after-thought, a parasite on its host.

"This looks like a freighter to me. Is it armed?" Ravindra said.

"Not that we could see. We wondered about this." Prasad played the signal, expressed as sound. _Dit dit dit... dat dat dat_. "It repeated every few minutes in a short burst. A distress signal, maybe?"

"If it is, then the _Yogina_ arrived to take them home. And we interrupted." Lomandra folded his arms, lips set in his familiar scowl.

Ravindra glanced between the two men. Lomandra had clearly made up his mind, but that was his manner. Prasad was more subtle, less inclined to jump to conclusions. "Have you tried to track the ship's route back?" he asked.

"The nav database is unrecognizable," Prasad said.

_So we don't know where it came from._ Ravindra flicked open his _sanvad_ and connected to his adjutant. "Send orders to ' _Kalanag'_ to follow the alien ship's emissions trail back as far as possible."

He put the communicator back on his belt. "If we're very lucky, we'll find a planet. What can we tell from the ship?"

"I agree that it is most likely to be a freighter because of the configuration. But we have found nothing familiar. The systems are completely unintelligible, totally different from ours. And before you ask, different from the _Yogin_ technology—or as far as we can tell. Even the material it is built from is different."

"Food? Air?"

"Air taken from the ship is a similar composition to our own. The food would be edible."

"Display the _Yogin_ as a comparison."

Prasad called up a new image, a thing resembling a thin child, naked and innocuous. Granted, a thin, bald child with a number of deformities, such as a nose reduced to little more than nostril slits, ears reduced to vestiges and no sexual organs. The eyes were as strange as the woman's.

Set side-by-side the newcomers' differences to the _Yogin_ were evident, the similarities to Manesa even more obvious.

Ravindra rested his chin on his fingers. Prasad's argument that the two were separate entities was compelling. "So very much like us. And yet not. I think I would like to see these aliens for myself.

You can buy _Morgan's Choice_here. (Also available in print. For additional information about this series check here.)

I love to write books about smokin' hot admirals, and this is exactly that. Ravindra is the epitome of an alpha male – he doesn't need those insignia on his shoulder boards to ooze authority. He's born to rule. But he has never come across a woman like Morgan Selwood. She despises authority and because her talents made her indispensable, she could get away with it – in her own part of the galaxy. But, as Ravindra tells her more than once, she is not where she came from. If they are to work together, these two alpha personalities are going to have to find common ground and compromise.

This book is the second of the Morgan Selwood series. The first tells a little of Morgan's backstory. You'll find information about all five books (three novelettes and two full length novels) at my website. I hope you'll enjoy reading about Morgan and Ravindra's adventures as much as I enjoyed writing them.

You can buy _Morgan's Choice_here. (Also available in print. For additional information about this series check here.)

Greta van der Rol loves writing action-packed adventures with a side salad of romance. Most of her work is space opera, but she has written paranormal and historical fiction.

She lives not far from the coast in Queensland, Australia and enjoys photography and cooking when she isn't bent over the computer. She has a degree in history and a background in building information systems, both of which go a long way toward helping her in her writing endeavours. You'll find her online at on her website.

# Mission to Mahjundar by Veronica Scott

# About Mission to Mahjundar

Can a tough Sectors Special Forces soldier accomplish his own military mission, rescue the Princess of Shadows from an arranged marriage and defeat an alien god in time to escape the planet with his lady?

An attempted assassination left Princess Shalira blind as a child and, now that she's of marriageable age, her prospects are not good because of her disability. She's resigned herself to an arranged marriage rather than face life under the thumb of her cold stepmother. But then she meets Mike Varone, a Sectors Special Forces officer sent to Mahjundar by the intergalactic government to retrieve a ship lost in her planet's mountains. After Mike saves Shalira from another assassination attempt, she arranges for him to escort her across the planet to her future husband. She's already falling hard for the deadly offworlder and knows she should deny herself the temptation he represents, but taking Mike along to protect her is the only way she'll live long enough to escape her ruthless stepmother.

But what should have been an easy trek through Mahjundar's peaceful lands swiftly turns into an ambush with danger around every turn. Shalira's marriage begins to seem less like an arranged union and more like yet another planned assassination. The more they work together to survive, the harder it becomes to stop themselves from falling in love. Caught in a race against time, can they escape the hostile forces hunting them and make it off the planet?

# Sample of Mission to Mahjundar

_T his place feels primed for disaster._ Despite their local escort's best efforts to hurry him through the crowded market, Mike noticed many of the stalls were closed, the vendors having left early and shuttered their inventory away. Other sellers seemed to be practically forcing their wares on the passersby, as if there was a deadline they were afraid to miss. Crowds of people thronged the place, some buying supplies, others talking furtively in small clumps. The situation report on the planet had said the political climate was stable, even with a dying emperor.

Sitreps were notoriously incomplete or dead wrong.

Shifting the heavy bag of equipment he was carrying, Mike exchanged a glance with his sergeant before tapping their guide's shoulder. "Always this crowded?"

Without slackening his stride, the gaudily dressed local officer shook his head. "No, tomorrow is the first day of a major festival. People are stocking their larders for feasting. The plaza will be nearly empty by nightfall."

"A pity our briefing didn't mention the festival, or we'd have come in tomorrow. Our mission could have waited one day." Ducking past a man carrying four rolled-up carpets, nearly falling over a pair of small street beggars, Mike shoved a half-drunk youth out of his way. His limited store of patience frayed, Mike felt a dull headache pounding. "After this melee, encountering mountain bandits will be a picnic."

He stepped onto a broad, green-tiled walkway that bordered the flagstone street. From there, the going became somewhat easier. The small party made progress for a couple of encouraging minutes before a new impediment arose. Behind Mike came a fanfare of blaring, slightly out-of-sync trumpets. What traffic there was in the street came to an immediate halt as people started shoving, struggling to get to the sides of the thoroughfare, leaving the center of the road clear.

"It must be the empress and her party, on their way home from their observances at the temple complex." Their guide, who'd introduced himself at the tiny spaceport simply as Captain Rojar, peered into the distance, one hand shading his eyes. "Let's wait and see the fine sight. A treat for you."

Granted, Mike's hypnotraining in the primary Mahjundan languages might not have been all-inclusive, but there'd definitely been a faint tinge of sarcasm in the man's remarks. Mike studied Rojar's bland expression for a moment, but the officer's tanned face and half smile betrayed nothing. Over his shoulder, Mike said in Basic to his cousin Johnny, the Special Forces sergeant accompanying him, "Watch our six. I didn't think this crowd could make me any more nervous, but the tension definitely ramped up in the last two minutes."

Glancing at the nearest citizens, Johnny Danver nodded. "Kinda quiet and sullen compared to what it was, ain't it?"

Deciding to push the issue with their guide, Mike said, "Why don't we move on? We could make some real progress while the crowd waits for the parade to go by."

Hands on his hips, eyes narrowed, Rojar did a nervous survey of their position, as if marking where they stood in relation to some landmark only he knew, before shaking his head once. He made a slicing motion. "No." Belatedly, he attempted to soften the refusal with a bit more explanation. "Much better to wait. No doubt you'll find this glimpse of our royal family highly interesting."

"No doubt," Mike agreed, his own tone sarcastic now. Exchanging a rapid glance with Johnny, he settled in to wait for the promised parade, keeping a close eye on their gear, piled on the walkway at his feet. There was no point in struggling through the crowd independent of their escort. Arriving at the palace without the guy and having to wait for him to catch up would get the job off on the wrong foot for sure. Mike took a swig of water from his canteen, to cool his throat and his temper. One thing the report had been accurate about–Mahjundar was hot, even in midafternoon.

Although she'd never lived in the temperate mountain forests, Princess Shalira imagined she'd prefer them to the hot lowlands. Whenever she visited the tiny temple of her patron goddess Pavmiraia on the outskirts of the city, as she was doing today, she pretended the heat and intrigues of the capital and the court had been left behind. This chapel and her vivid daydreams provided special refuges for most of her life.

The floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she strolled twenty paces from the door to the altar, passing the snoring priestess, sprawled on a bench no doubt, mouth probably wide open. _Not many come here anymore, not many at all. Will anyone worship the goddess when I've gone?_ Tears pricked Shalira's eyes as she felt for the padded knee rest, bowed her head, and knelt in front of the altar.

"Do you know this is to be my last visit?" she whispered to the goddess she could no longer see. "Do you care? Will my pleas still reach your ears when I've completed my appointed journey?" Shalira fingered the amulet around her neck, the familiar whorls of the much-worn pattern under her fingers soothing her anxieties. For the thousandth time she reminded herself this impending trip wasn't her choice so much as the least of evils. She took a deep breath. "Maybe my life will improve, away from the empress and her schemes."

Settling more comfortably on the knee rest, she tried to visualize the chapel – graceful murals of forest and mountains on the walls, a small fountain in the courtyard outside, the larger than-life-size statue of the goddess herself, perpetually gazing to the east, a half smile on her face. Though Shalira'd not beheld these sights in well over fifteen years, she felt sure she was remembering them accurately.

A cool breeze smelling of moss and tiny flowers blew her long hair away from her face, and instinctively she lifted her chin to enjoy the stray breath of air.

Footsteps came down the aisle behind her, an unfamiliar, light tread. The newcomer halted a few feet behind the princess, who was already pivoting, unwilling to have her back to a stranger. _For all the good it'll do me if the intruder harbors evil intentions._ She curled her hands into fists.

"No need to fear me, Your Highness. I offer a parting prophecy for your journey." The woman's voice was sweet and low, disarming. "You'll travel farther than you dream, experience many things both good and bad, and even unexpected, but the blessings of Pavmiraia will wrap around you. Never doubt, but follow your heart in all your choices."

"Thank you, priestess." Unclenching her fingers, Shalira tried to calm herself with a deep breath. "Are you recently assigned to this chapel? I didn't know there were any new celebrants."

Gentle laughter like the chiming of bells. The woman touched Shalira's cheek with the tips of her fingers. Annoyed, the princess straightened her spine, disliking anyone touching her, much less someone she didn't know. "Indeed not," said the bold newcomer. "I've been here since before your time. I came to bid you farewell, for I also take my leave of this place."

"Who _are_ you? I don't recognize your voice." She tried to keep impatience out of her tone. People who made her guess their identity were another frustrating aspect of her existence on the fringes of the court.

"Yet you know me - you call upon me with great frequency." The cool fingers lifted away from her face. "One of the last of the true believers, you."

Confused and angry someone would take advantage of her blindness, would dare to impersonate the goddess, Shalira hesitated to utter scalding words. _I want this to be real,_ whispered a voice deep in her heart. _I want some magic; surely I deserve some magic._

In the next moment, she felt a whisper-soft kiss on her forehead before the intruder said, "Stay true to your heart in all which faces you. Go with my blessing, hold tight to your dreams, even in great adversity. The things you wish are worthy of being granted, but must be earned."

_Love, children, a home of my own–my vision restored._ _Maybe this arranged marriage I go to will satisfy a few of these._

Blinking hard, she realized the footsteps were receding, a faint pattering as if the woman was dancing to a tune only she could hear. Despite stiff knees from kneeling in prayer, the princess took a few faltering steps, bumping into the railing around the altar, clutching the wood to keep from falling. "Wait, please wait–"

"Who are you speaking to, Your Highness?" It was the gravelly voice of her one loyal guardsman, Saium. His heavy footsteps echoed in the tiny chapel as he crossed the threshold, shoving the door aside with a scrape of warped wood on stone. The smoky scent of the pipe he'd indulged in wafted around her, as he approached with the uneven sound of the limp he tried to conceal when his bones ached.

The elderly nun coughed, stirring on her bench.

_How did the other woman leave? There wasn't any sound of the door before Saium entered._ Bewildered, Shalira toyed with the end of her long braid, twining the loose tendrils around her fingers. "Did you see her?"

"See who? No one entered or left since your arrival." Saium was next to her now, taking her elbow in one huge hand with a light clasp, overly familiar, but allowed from him. "The empress is impatient to leave the temple complex. She's been waiting–"

"And _she_ is extremely annoyed to be delayed by an ungrateful girl!" Empress Maralika's shrill voice echoed in the small chamber like fingernails on a slate, the sound startling the elderly priestess into falling off her bench with a thump and a quickly smothered curse.

Saium dropped to his knees as Maralika's quick steps rapped on the stone floor like a drum tattoo, moving in their direction. Shalira stretched her stiffened joints, turning her head toward the sound of the empress's approach. "My apologies for delaying you, Your Majesty. As I'll never be here again, I had to complete the proper leave-taking of the goddess." _Did Pavmiraia herself speak to me? Bless me?_

"Considering I was kind enough to bring you along today, the least you could do is observe the demands of my schedule." Tapping one toe on the stone floor, Maralika laughed. "Although from the dilapidation of this place, I might have done you a disservice. Surely, no goddess, no power, still dwells in _this_ environment. Better you'd worshipped at the temple of the new gods, the ones I give allegiance."

"I prefer the old ways." Shalira kept her voice mild. They'd had this fruitless argument before.

Maralika snapped her fingers. "And much good your loyalty has ever done you. Come along now." The empress wheeled, her robes sweeping across the floor with an angry swish, leaving the temple as rapidly as she'd entered a moment ago.

Not quite sure where she stood, or how many steps it would be to the door, Shalira held out her hand. "Please?"

Saium clasped her fingers in his. "My pleasure, Your Highness."

Together they strolled from the temple, the hot sun striking like a slap on her face as she crossed the threshold under her guardsman's guidance. The princess blinked back tears, wishing for a fleeting second she could run into the temple and find true sanctuary there. _Don't be childish, people are watching._ People were constantly scrutinizing her. She was an object of curiosity, pity, and speculation at her father's court. _Well, I'm leaving all this behind now, aren't I? Maybe change will be a good thing._ Smiling despite the gnawing dread in the pit of her stomach, she walked steadily toward the restless horse the empress insisted she ride. She could hear the stallion's hooves striking sparks from the paving stones as he challenged the grip of his handler. When Saium boosted her into the saddle, Shalira took comfort in the fact there would be only a few more days to struggle through before she left her present troubles behind forever.

If he'd been in charge of the imperial procession, the soldiers would've marched in better formation, with a crisper gait. Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a supposedly crack regiment display such an uncaring, lax attitude in front of the local populace. Heading the column was a contingent of mounted guards, wearing gaudy uniforms, cut from the same iridescent fabric as Rojar's, and sporting helmets with long, curling feather crests. Involuntarily, Mike glanced at his own black and gold uniform.

Busy whittling a stick of wood he'd picked up from somewhere, small yellow pocket knife sending the shavings flying, Johnny laughed out loud. "Makes you glad the Sectors don't go in for much color."

"We'd never be able to do our job." Mike hefted the bag he was carrying, not wanting to set anything else down on the busy street. "The enemy would see us coming a mile away."

His cousin held out the crude carving. "My best attempt at local fauna, that winged lion thing." He tossed the quickly done piece to a nearby boy who'd been watching him open-mouthed, before snapping his knife shut and tucking it in a pocket of his utilities.

Mike nodded at the standard bearers marching behind the guards, holding aloft the banners of the imperial household. "You mean that? The _cherindor_? You need a lot more practice." The mythical, winged feline rampant on the banners resembled pictures he'd seen of Terran lions, but with a barbed tail and three eyes. The image was apparently ubiquitous in the city. He and Johnny had been joking about it in fact, while they'd waited for Rojar.

"Wings are tricky to carve. Just passin' the time."

Rojar elbowed Mike in the ribs, pointing with his free hand. "Her Imperial Highness Maralika. You're privileged today, Major Varone, to have a glimpse of her magnificence."

_Definitely sarcasm_. Mike stifled a flash of irritation. Getting embroiled in local politics, even accidentally, wasn't on his agenda for this search-and-recovery mission. He might have to request another liaison if this guy was going to cause problems with his hostility toward the ruling family.

The off-key trumpeters strutted by, blaring yet another fanfare. Now the empress appeared, carried in an elaborately painted litter, a muscular soldier at each corner. She was semi-reclining, so Mike couldn't get a good look at her face full on. Elaborately coiffed black hair, sparkling with jewels, framed a rather hard profile, somewhat disguised by cosmetics. _But for all I know, she's the Mahjundan standard of high beauty._ He took a second look. _Not mine._ She waved languidly at the crowd with one pale hand as her litter proceeded along the parade route. Three rings flaunting gems the size of pigeons' eggs caught the sun, throwing rainbows across the crowd as she flicked her hand.

Grim-faced guards walked on all sides, tougher than the gaudy troops who'd marched first in the parade. These men had their weapons at the ready, constantly scanning the mostly silent crowd.

A party of boisterous younger people rode horses behind the empress. Laughing and talking amongst themselves, they made no pretense whatsoever of acknowledging the crowd.

"Ladies-in-waiting, courtiers, some of the favored royal children," Rojar told Mike. "We're close to the end of the procession now. We'll be able to go on our way in a minute or two, after the priests and servants."

A girl riding slightly behind the others caught Mike's eye. She was wearing a pale blue dress, edged in lavender and gold. The lack of riotous, clashing color alone made her stand out to Mike in this crazy kaleidoscope of a city. But then he took a second glance to admire her beauty, masses of glossy black hair framing her lovely oval face. Brows drawn together in a fierce frown of concentration above almond-shaped eyes, she sat straight-backed in the saddle, one hand clenched in a death grip on the pommel, the other clutching the reins. Holding the horse's green-tasseled bridle was a guard in the most subdued uniform Mike had seen yet on the color mad planet - brown-and-emerald with no braid or gaudy ribbons. Having a keen eye for horses, Mike could tell her magnificent stallion was ill at ease, sidestepping nervously, tossing its head, wild-eyed and sweating. He was about to ask Rojar a question about these two when suddenly there was a massive explosion farther to the east, toward the palace, followed by another, smaller blast.

The shock wave knocked Mike to his knees, hands going automatically to his ears, which ached from the concussion.

The crowd went berserk, screaming, pushing, running in all directions.

Instinctively, Mike reached for the blaster customarily at his hip. _Damn, not this trip._

The neat column of the procession had fallen to chaos on the roadway. The horses bolted, one plowing through the crowd right behind Mike, knocking people over like straws. Caught in a knot of Mahjundans, forced away from his companions by the unruly mob, Mike's attention was riveted on the black stallion, rearing and lashing out. The guard in green was nowhere to be seen.

Mike pushed against the packed, sweating bodies surrounding him, yelling above the din for people to get out of his way. His attention was focused on the beautiful girl who'd seemed such a reluctant horsewoman. The stallion was circling, bucking, gathering itself to bolt while she did her best to control the terrified animal. Lips compressed, eyes unaccountably closed, the woman he'd become fascinated by before the explosion was holding the reins tight. Mike ran across the green tile border and into the street, which offered easier going. Most people were trying to escape from the square altogether, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the potential danger of another explosion. Sprinting to the horse, Mike made a wild grab at the reins.

Seeing her at closer range, he revised his estimate of her age upward by about ten years–not a girl in the late bloom of youth after all, but a stunning woman. "Hang on, lady, I'll help you dismount. Once you're safe, I can try to get him calmed down for you," Mike said, pitching his voice at a level he hoped would cut through the incredible din in the square. "You're doing fine, just don't let go of the reins, ok?"

She opened her eyes, turning in his direction. "Oh, please—"

The stallion bucked harder, breaking the rider's hold on the saddle. She slid off like a rag doll. Cursing, Mike let go of the horse, which promptly bolted. He managed to break the girl's fall, going to one knee as he caught her. To prevent her from being trampled by the crowd, which surged into the space the distressed horse had kept clear with its lashing hooves, Mike carried her in the direction the panick-stricken people were flowing. "Come on, we've got to get away from this mob!"

It was like swimming in a riptide. Going with the flow initially, Mike angled toward the far curb and got himself and his trembling companion across the roadway.

"I can walk," she said, voice faint. Making no effort to leave the security of his arms, however, she had her eyes closed again.

Rather than waste time arguing, he carried her as he clambered over fallen people and maneuvered around debris until they fetched up in the doorway of a bakery. The sweet smell of fresh breads mingled incongruously with the stench of smoke from the bomb blast. With a muttered apology, Mike set the woman on her feet behind him, so he could defend them both if necessary.

Drawing his belt knife, which was the only weapon he'd been allowed to carry through the city gates, he felt better. Now prepared to deal with whatever might happen next, he crouched in the doorway, trying to keep the woman out of sight behind him as much as possible. Mike surveyed the plaza, identifying __ no immediate threats _. No one paying us any attention right now, too much confusion and panic_. He had no way of knowing if the empress had just been the target of an assassination attempt or whether the bombers had hoped some members of the royal household would be unlucky enough to be caught in the blast so close to the parade. If it was the latter case, his job was to keep the terrorists from stumbling over his companion. _Time to reassure the woman I rescued._

Half-turning to check how she was doing, he said, "Sorry for the rough handling, miss. Someone apparently has it in for the royal family today."

One hand was clenched around a small red purse tied to her belt. She was staring slightly over his shoulder with beautiful caramel-brown eyes, golden highlights sparkling in their depths. Reaching to touch his shoulder with her free hand, she let her manicured nails drift ever so slowly to his face.

_She's blind?_ He allowed her to run her hand over his features for a moment.

Finishing her rudimentary scan, the woman patted her hair and cleared her throat. "Your voice is unknown to me, sir, but thank you for your help. What of my guardsman? I'm anxious about his safety."

_You should be worrying about your own skin, lady._ "I didn't see him after the explosion. He probably got dragged away by the crowd. There were a lot of people in the market, and they became a mob with one thing on their minds—escape. I had a hard time working my way to you and the horse." Mike took a deep breath of her perfume, floral with a woodsy undertone, while he reconnoitered the square again with practiced efficiency. "The excitement will subside in a few minutes, after which I'd be honored to escort you to the palace."

"Most kind." She stood patiently, one hand at her throat, toying with the turquoise and green necklace she wore. "I wish we knew what had become of my guard."

He checked conditions in the plaza. The crowd had thinned out now, leaving behind a colossal mess of broken pottery, crushed food, torn awnings, and everywhere, the injured. Mike guessed most of the casualties had been knocked down and trampled in the panic, since the lethal effect of the bomb itself had been localized. _Is this the explanation behind Rojar not wanting to walk any farther? He was on edge, anticipating something from the moment we met him._

The woman leaned back until she was propped up by the bakery wall. "Could—could you tell me what's wrong with my arm? I think it's bleeding."

Returning his knife to the sheath first, he took her slender, tanned arm and pushed several jeweled bracelets and the blood-stained fabric of her sleeve out of the way. A jagged metal shard was embedded in her upper arm, blood dripping onto the sheer silk dress. Examining the wound carefully, Mike was relieved to find it messy but superficial. The blood was already clotting. "Not too serious, just a big metal splinter. Hold still and I'll pull it out. Have you got something we can use for a bandage, until you can see a doctor?"

With her free hand, she tugged a wispy lavender scarf from her ebony black hair. "Will this do?" she asked, holding it slightly off to his right.

Mike reached over to take the scrap of fabric. "Fine. Now try not to move." Getting a firm grip on the twisted fragment, he drew it out, doing his best not to enlarge the wound. Then he wrapped the puncture firmly with the scarf. "You probably won't even need stitches," he said cheerfully. The woman stood quietly during the whole procedure, closing her eyes and breathing too fast, her chest rising and falling. She nodded at his remark but didn't answer.

Mike surveyed his handiwork, then peered at her face. "Only a small piece of shrapnel, but pretty jagged. You're pale. Are you sure you're up to walking?"

Stepping away from the wall, she straightened her shoulders resolutely. "I'll be fine. We must get to the palace. They'll be searching for me, and if there's trouble on the streets, I shouldn't be out."

"Let me help you, then." He laid his hand on her uninjured arm, to guide her down the bakery's three shallow steps.

She pulled away from him abruptly, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "I can manage."

Mike didn't relinquish his grip on her wrist. "I don't care if you know every inch of this plaza on an ordinary day—there's too much debris at the moment. You won't get ten steps without tripping over something. Now, do I guide you or do I carry you?"

Wordlessly, but with the hint of a curve to her lips, she extended her other hand. Closing her fingers over his with a strong grasp, she allowed him to lead her from their sheltering doorway. Mike decided against walking in the roadway. _Too conspicuous._ He set a path along the fringes of the plaza, sticking close to the shops. It wouldn't be as direct a route to the palace, but they'd attract less attention, a goal high on his priority list at the moment.

"Are there many injured?" she asked, brow wrinkled, voice soft with concern.

"Afraid so. Must have been quite a bomb. There are people attending to the wounded now, though." Steering her around a spilled cart of melons, past a decapitated sheep, he was glad she couldn't see the carnage. Collateral damage and human casualties were increasing as they got closer to the smoking bomb crater.

Empress Maralika's empty litter was tipped sideways, the solid wooden undercarriage facing the side of the street where the bomb had gone off. _Gave the empress some protection_. The litter appeared undamaged in the middle of the roadway, about fifty feet short of the worst of the blast zone. Lying in the street, one of the four guards who'd been carrying the litter was moaning and clutching at his chest.

_Mortally wounded, nothing I can do to help._ "Detonated too soon, apparently," he said to himself, mentally measuring the distance from the crater to the litter as he guided the girl past the dying soldier.

A voice hailed him in Basic from the side of the road behind them. "Mike!"

He spun around, breaking into a relieved grin. "Am I glad to see you. Where's Rojar?"

The sergeant gestured as he took in the woman standing hand in hand with Mike. "Right behind me. Been rescuing damsels in distress, have you?"

"She's blind," Mike said in Basic.

Rojar sprinted to join them but stopped abruptly when he focused on Mike's companion, making a sharp salute in her direction, which of course the woman couldn't see. "Your Highness, Captain Rojar of the emperor's guard, at your service." Waving his drawn gun, he glared at Mike. "And this person with his hands on you is Major Varone of the Sectors, newly arrived on Mahjundar. Outworlder, she can order your death for touching her—she's a princess of the blood direct."

"Nonsense," said the woman in a sharp tone. "Such drastic measures would hardly be an appropriate way to reward his kindness after I requested his guidance across the plaza." Then, and only then, did she disengage her hand from Mike's. "I'm somewhat disoriented. Are we close to the family gate?"

Taking a second to double-check, Rojar answered in the affirmative. "Indeed, Your Highness. We have only to cross the last hundred yards of the plaza. Allow me to procure a litter for you. All this blood on your dress—are you—"

"A scratch only, but I'm lightheaded. These gentlemen will stand watch over me while you go for the litter." The princess nodded her agreement with the captain's suggestion. She swayed a little as Rojar rushed off in search of suitable transportation.

Putting an arm around her waist, Mike kept her on her feet. Quickly, he steered her to a nearby cart and had her sit on the open tailgate, kneeling solicitously beside her. "Are you sure you don't have any other injuries?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine. I think it's the shock of the whole event. Only military men such as yourself remain calm in the face of bombs and assassins, right, Major?"

"Oh, the explosion left me searching for cover, I promise." Mike laughed with her. "We weren't expecting such a rousing welcome to your planet."

"I thought your accent rather unusual." She nodded.

"And we studied so hard to get it right," Mike said, in mock despair. _She's getting paler by the second. Better keep her talking and alert._ "Where's our gear?" he asked Johnny.

"I've wrangled it into a heap, over there, out of the way, and set two of Rojar's men to guarding it while I located you."

A moment later Rojar returned, accompanied by a small troop of guardsmen and a litter. After making sure the princess had no objection, Mike placed her gently on the pillows lining the conveyance. The guards whisked her through the ornate gilded gates of the palace. Mike watched her go, before turning his attention to his companions.

"Quite a welcome you prepared for us, Captain Rojar." He stared more closely at his sergeant, doing a double take as he realized Johnny's shirt was blood soaked under the arm. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"

"Nothing but a scratch. Don't blame you a bit for not noticing sooner, not with the princess to distract you." Johnny punched him in the arm and laughed good-naturedly. "Better get the stars out of your eyes now though and get on with our own program. Don't recall any orders in the briefing about rescuing royalty."

You can buy _Mission to Mahjundar_here.

_M ission to Mahjundar_ was sparked by three different elements. First, in college one of my best friends was an amazing woman named Cheryl, who had been blind since birth. I'd never known anyone who was blind, prior to meeting her, and Cheryl was awe inspiring, amazing in her refusal to accept any limits. She taught me many things, particularly how to use the other senses when one sense is denied. I always wanted to honor Cheryl by imbuing a character with her spirit and determination

Second, one day I was captivated by a photo of a windswept, abandoned temple, standing alone on a plateau, somewhere in the Far East. The image remained with me and I pondered – as one does – what adventure would bring people to this remote location and what would happen to them there. What would they be seeking? Would they find whatever they needed? This became the temple of the Mahjundan Ten Gods, where Shalira must go on her wedding journey, to seek a key to her mother's long-closed tomb. It also established in my mind that the planet Mahjundar was going to be loosely based on Far Eastern themes. I'm not sure how much the completed novel carries that intent out since after all, the planet is not-Earth, but there was influence as I pictured the daily life Shalira might lead.

Third, and this was the key thing that put all the other elements together in my mind and set off the plot, I happened across a perfume ad in a magazine. The illustration was very dark in tone, with a woman in a purple-and-gold hooded cloak holding a beautiful crystal bottle that glowed golden. The light from the bottle illuminated her face. And I thought, that's it! That's Shalira inside the tomb. Then I needed to know who would be there with her...and my Sectors Special Forces soldier, Mike Varone, told me _he_ would be, of course!

You can buy _Mission to Mahjundar_here.

Best Selling Science Fiction & Paranormal Romance author and "SciFi Encounters" columnist for the USA Today Happily Ever After blog, Veronica Scott grew up in a house with a library as its heart. Dad loved science fiction, Mom loved ancient history and Veronica thought there needed to be more romance in everything. When she ran out of books to read, she started writing her own stories.

Veronica writes novels set in the far future, often involving a disaster to kick the action off, as well as a fantasy romance series set in ancient Egypt. Her most recent release is _Star Cruise: Marooned._

Three time winner of the SFR Galaxy Award, as well as a National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award, Veronica is also the proud recipient of a NASA Exceptional Service Medal relating to her former day job, not her romances!

Mother of two, grandmother of one, companion to two cats....

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# Shades of Treason by Sandy Williams

# About Shades of Treason

**A sh would have given her life to save her teammates.**

**Instead, they gave their lives to save hers.**

Lieutenant Ramie Ashdyn is an anomaly, a person whose genetics makes her stronger and smarter than the average human. She's pledged her life to protect the Coalition, an alliance of thirteen planetary systems, but when a top secret operation turns deadly, she's charged with treason and the brutal executions of her teammates.

The Coalition needs the information Ash's team stole on their last mission, so they send in Commander Rhys "Rest in Peace" Rykus to get it. He's the man who's responsible for turning Ash into an elite soldier... and he's a man who isn't, never was, and never will be in love with the woman he trained. Or so he tells himself.

Ash wants nothing more than to clear her name and be the woman her former instructor wants her to be, but the enemy who killed her teammates did more than frame her for treason and murder: they telepathically silenced her mind, preventing her from saying anything that might point to the truth about what happened.

Now Ash is trapped and set to be executed, the truth dying with her. Unless she can prove her innocence. But taking that path could destroy the Coalition she's sworn to preserve and protect...

# Sample of Shades of Treason

CHAPTER ONE

When Commander Rhys "Rest in Peace" Rykus walked back into her life, Ash smiled because she knew it would piss him off. He was an intimidating SOB, always had been, and it took an effort not to give in to habit and stand to salute him. It helped, of course, that her wrists were shackled to the arms of her chair.

Rykus didn't say anything when he entered her stale-aired prison, so Ash echoed his silence. The room's low ceiling accentuated his height and broad shoulders. He outweighed her by forty, maybe fifty pounds now that he'd completely gotten over his old shoulder injury and packed on more muscle. The way his crisp black uniform embraced his frame drew her gaze, but she was a bit disappointed that he was clean-shaven. She'd always liked it when stubble shadowed the planes of his face. She'd told him as much once during training, and he'd sent her on extra weighted runs as punishment. Though she'd ended up sore, stiff, and tired as hell, it had been worth it to get under his skin.

She had to get under his skin now because she could already feel his presence scraping away her resolve. The Coalition wanted her to talk, and she'd been programmed years ago to respond to Rykus's voice. She had to escape soon—now—because if she didn't he'd trigger that brainwashing and command her to give him the cipher the Coalition so desperately wanted.

Keeping her smile in place, Ash turned her attention to the two men flanking him. The first waited beside the door, his gaze locked on her, his hand resting ready on his gun. The other man wasn't armed. Instead of a weapon, he carried a bio-scanner and med-sack. He dropped the sack on the data-table in front of her, yanked out a blue aerosol bottle, then sprayed both his hands with liqui-glove. With short, rough movements, he treated the cut on her temple.

Ash lowered her gaze to the table, but Rykus's stare drilled into her. She didn't have to look up to imagine his expression. After a year of training under his command, she'd memorized the harsh set of his jaw and the dark, I've-been-to-hell-and-back depths of his eyes. The force of his scowl could shatter heat shielding if Rykus was so inclined, but he usually kept his anger in check. Usually. Ash had a talent for setting him off.

He sat in the chair on the other side of the data-table, the only piece of furniture in the cell besides her chair and the sleep-slab that was now folded into the dull gray wall.

She took a moment to steel herself against her loyalty training, then met her former instructor's eyes. "It's been a while, Rip."

When the medic went still beside her, she forced a laugh. "Guess the commander doesn't go by that name much around here, does he?"

Ah, there it was, the telltale tightening of the skin around Rykus's eyes. No one else called him Rip—at least, not to his face—but she was the one who'd given him the nickname back when she was his cadet. She figured she might as well use it, especially if it would throw him off-balance. For the Coalition's loyalty training to fully kick in, Rykus's words had to be spoken in a precise tone and cadence. When he was angry or—dare she suggest it—aroused, his voice dipped. It was a slight, almost unnoticeable change, but it was enough to let her fight and occasionally overcome the compulsion in his commands.

"Still," she said to the medic, "he is the only man in the entire federated military to show up alive and well to his own funeral. He never told us anomalies how he managed that." She tilted her head to the side and pitched her last words as a question.

Rykus just sat there staring through her. Her faith in her plan wavered. Maybe she shouldn't push him away. Maybe he could help her. If he ordered her to report what happened on the mission to Chalos II, maybe she could break through the telepathic stranglehold preventing her from explaining everything.

But as soon as the thought entered her mind, her heart clogged her throat. She could almost hear her subconscious cautioning against the idea. Something bad would happen if Rykus commanded her to speak. She was certain of it.

She made her tone casual, her expression unconcerned. "Tell me, Rip, how are you liking this plush new command?"

Still he said nothing.

"Not much for conversation these days, are you?"

He didn't even blink. When had he become so fucking impenetrable? Used to be she could make him angry with a few take-me-to-bed glances, but maybe his triggers had changed. Or maybe, since she was no longer his cadet, he didn't give a damn about her anymore.

Her stomach twisted like a transport on a bad reentry into atmosphere. She blocked out the sensation, the odd little mix of hurt and devotion. It was just the loyalty training urging her to please him. It didn't mean anything. Never had, never would.

The medic finished treating the cut on her head, then swabbed the broken skin on her knuckles. Even though her escape attempt had failed, she'd managed to land a few solid hits before she went down. Rykus had taught her well.

The medic put away the disinfectant and picked up a bio-band. He stared at the device, then frowned at her chair-shackled wrists.

"You can unbind me," Ash told him, innocence dripping from her tone. "I won't try anything. Promise."

He glared, shook his head, then stepped back to look at her bare feet. She'd regained consciousness without her boots and without the knife she'd confiscated from one of the guards she'd taken down during her transfer to the ship.

He strapped the device to her ankle and switched it on. It wouldn't do him any good. Her physical injuries were superficial, and she'd already been scanned a dozen times since her arrest. The bio-band wouldn't tell the doctors what was really wrong with her, and she couldn't tell them herself. She'd tried. Over and over again, she'd tried, but Jevan, the deceitful, manipulative bastard, had screwed with her head.

"I didn't train a traitor."

Rykus's voice rebounded off the walls and struck Ash in the center of her chest. She kept her focus on the medic, hoping the bio-band didn't pick up an increased heart rate.

"Tell me what happened."

He didn't command her to speak, thank God. He never did at first. If his habits hadn't changed, he'd ask her once more before he tried to force a confession.

She made her hands loosen their grip on the chair arms. "Guess you're not as good at reading people as you thought."

A low blow, one that should have hurt, but Rykus didn't even twitch. Damn it. Had she lost her touch?

"You need to start talking." His tone turned brutal, bruising. "The Coalition is sending their best man to interrogate you. He won't be gentle."

Ash saw her opening and made her voice a low purr. "You know I like it rough, Commander."

A sharp and sudden inhalation was the only sign he'd heard her words. Ash kept her half smile plastered on her face despite the painful twist in her stomach. She'd already lost her comrades, her career, her reputation, everything. She might as well act like the arrogant bitch he'd always thought her to be.

Rykus leaned forward. "This is the last time I'll ask. Tell me what happened."

"Tell me what you believe."

She hid a grimace when the words left her lips. She didn't want to know if he believed the accusations. If he did, it would hurt. If he didn't... Well, it would make it that much harder to push him away.

Seconds ticked by. Ash wanted to slouch in her seat, but she kept her chin lifted, her eyes on Rykus's.

Finally, he came to a decision and jabbed at the data-table. "Let's start with your team."

Their images appeared on the table's surface. The universe pitched into an angle that was all wrong. It didn't feel like they were dead. It felt like she could call them anytime, especially since the pictures had been captured weeks ago, just days before they'd left for Chalos II.

"You're accused of executing five men, each with a single shot to the head. You worked with them for the past year, some even longer than that. Yet when asked why you murdered them, you gave no comment."

Emotion scraped Ash's throat raw. Those men were her family. She would have given her life to save them. Instead, they'd given their lives to save hers. And to save the Coalition. They'd all taken an oath to preserve and protect it.

Rykus flattened his hand on the table, and the images changed to show a series of decoded transmissions. "Your file contains over thirty records of communications with known Saricean agents. In them, you reveal classified information. Your leaks ranged from incidental supply shipments to the name and coordinates of a shuttle carrying Senator Ben Playte." Rykus pinned her with one of his destructive glares. "Playte was assassinated three days after the Sariceans received this document. When asked if any of these were forgeries, you gave no comment."

He swiped his hand across the table's surface, flinging her service record in her face.

"Since your graduation, you've received top reviews from every commander you've served under. They've stated that you're 'a superb soldier,' 'unwavering in your mission,' and 'dedicated, if a bit cheeky.'" He looked up. When she raised her shoulders in a shrug, his expression hardened. "There are some blips in your attendance the past six months. Times when you didn't answer your summons, showed up late to debriefings, or didn't make an appearance at routine, required meetings. When your interrogators asked your whereabouts, you gave no comment."

Six months ago. That's when this had started. That's when she'd met Jevan and become a fool.

"You still have no comment?" Rykus asked.

She stared at the table. She'd deny it all if she could, but she knew better than to try. She couldn't speak of anything that had happened since she met Jevan. When she tried, she blacked out. No one noticed. She always stayed upright; her eyes never blinked, never lost focus, but seconds, maybe minutes would pass before her brain started functioning again. If someone was interrogating her, they assumed she was ignoring their questions.

"Do you know why you were brought to the _Obsidian_?" Rykus asked.

She pressed her lips together. The Coalition wanted the information her team had copied from the Saricean databanks on Chalos II. That had been their assignment, and they'd completed it without a hitch. It wasn't until after they withdrew from the planet that Trevast, her commanding officer, had sat down and analyzed what they'd stolen. He'd cursed. Then he'd looked at his team and told them telepaths were real and that they'd infiltrated the Coalition's government.

She'd laughed. They all had.

Telepathy was a fiction, a farce, a fabrication for the gullible. It didn't exist.

She looked back at Rykus. His mouth tightened into a frown, a frown which gave her flashbacks to the harsh, hellish days training under him on Caruth. "Did you change the encryption on the files, Lieutenant?"

The truth clawed at her throat. A private yacht had intercepted her team's shuttle before they could make it to the rendezvous point. It hadn't broadcasted an ID or a Mayday, and they hadn't been near any mapped routes. There was only one reason for the yacht to be there, and when it fired upon them without any provocation, Trevast had shoved a comm-cuff with the stolen data into Ash's hands. He knew she was an anomaly. He knew what she was capable of. He knew she was the only person on the team who could re-encrypt the Sariceans' files with a different cipher before their attackers boarded, and that's exactly what she'd done. It was in her head now, and both the Coalition and Jevan would do anything to rip it out.

"You'll be charged with treason if you don't cooperate." Rykus's words were softer than his expression, and the loyalty training pulled at her again. She was damn sure the medic's bio-band was picking up the thudding of her heart. She had to get control of this conversation and get rid of Rip Rykus.

She leaned forward as far as her restraints would allow, waited until Rykus did the same, anticipating her confession. Their heads almost met in the center of the table, and Ash breathed in deep, exhaled slowly.

"I've always loved the smell of your aftershave."

Rykus exploded, launching his chair across the floor. The medic scrambled out of the way when he rounded the data-table. "I'm the only person in the Coalition who wants to help you, and you're playing your goddamn games."

His hand went to her chest and shoved with enough force to send her and the chair toppling backward to the ground. The impact knocked the breath from her, and she choked trying to reinflate her lungs.

Rykus kneeled beside her, pinned her. " _Give me the cipher_."

She sucked in a breath as the compulsion snaked through her. She'd been successful though. His pitch was a little off, his voice a little too tight. She fought against the need to obey him—battled against it—but he hovered above her. His eyes demanded the truth, and her control began to slip. Desperate, she worked enough moisture into her mouth to spit in his face.

She saw his chest rise and fall, heard the huffs of his angry breaths. Slowly, he stood. He said nothing as he wiped his face with his sleeve, nothing as he bent down to heft her upright. In fact, she was pretty sure he wouldn't have said anything at all if a guard hadn't entered with a tray of food.

Rykus stopped the woman, stuck the knife, spoon, and fork in his pocket, grabbed the tray, then dumped its contents across the table, effectively ending Ash's next escape attempt before she had the chance to implement it. "She can eat like a dog."

CHAPTER TWO

Rykus knew Admiral Bayis would be waiting in the brig's security room, so he forced his fists to relax, his jaw to unclench, and he put on a cool, controlled façade to disguise the turmoil banging around in his chest.

"Interesting woman," Admiral Bayis said. He stood in the observation room down the corridor from Ash's cell, staring at the security vid that showed brown gravy dripping off the data-table and onto the floor.

"She is," Rykus agreed, though the assessment was an understatement. Ash was more than interesting. She was intriguing, infuriatingly insolent, and one of the most cunning and determined soldiers he'd ever trained. He hadn't seen her in three years, but she hadn't changed. As the medic unstrapped the bio-band, Rykus watched Ash's face and felt that old, uncomfortable ache in the pit of his stomach. Her smile was the same; so was the slight tilt to her head and the spark in her green eyes. He'd grown to hate that expression, to hate the way she always looked like she knew a secret. He'd punished her for it, kept her up through the cold nights at Caruth's poles, run her into the ground during the planet's blistering summers. He'd tried everything that was permitted to make her tap out of the program, but that half grin never wavered.

And she still had that damn braid. It was barely visible beneath the rest of her dark hair, but the end of it draped over her right shoulder, a blatant sign of defiance.

"Has she broken the loyalty training?" Bayis asked.

"I'm not sure," he managed to say, ignoring the quick, sudden tightening in his gut. He'd left Caruth because of the loyalty training. He and the other three lead instructors had been told the program would insure the anomaly's mental stability—something that had been an issue in the past—but after the soldiers were put in the psyche-mask and indoctrinated, the side effects had become evident. Loyalty-trained anomalies would jeopardize everything to follow their instructors' commands. That had never sat right with Rykus, even when I-Com explained that, unless something went wrong, he would never again come into contact with any of the anomalies he trained.

Bayis clasped his hands behind his back. "If the Sariceans have broken the programming, the doctors will want to study her. They're already asking she be sent to the institute."

Of course they were.

"The institute will botch up her mind," Rykus said. "We need the cipher, not a brain-dead zombie."

"Can you make her talk?"

Rykus stared at his former cadet. "I don't know. Even with the loyalty training, she was a difficult cadet. Manipulative. She stretched the rules, tested limits. Plus she's stubborn. Unmovable when she sets her mind to something."

"Perhaps she's always been a Saricean agent then?"

Bayis was thinking out loud—he didn't intend the question as an insult—but it cruised too close to Rykus's flight path anyway. He'd spent four years of his life on Caruth, training cadets whose combined psyche and medical exams came back a hundred points higher than normal. He schooled them in martial arts, taught them to fire every weapon in the Fighting Corps' arsenal, and made them experts in tech-apps, systems engineering, cryptography, and hack-sig. He and the other instructors on Caruth had weeded out the cadets who couldn't handle the pressure and those who had questionable moral compasses. They were all damn good at their jobs, but a few anomalies slipped through the other instructors' filters. The Senate Intelligence Committee had insisted on the loyalty training. They'd wanted dependable soldiers and a guarantee that their investments wouldn't snap or go rogue.

They'd wanted a fail-safe.

"I don't think so." He should get a medal for his even, controlled tone. It would have been more deserved than the last one he'd received. "Ash never hid her opinions. If she had a problem with something, she'd tell you, no matter how much you might want her to keep her mouth shut. That's why her behavior makes no sense. She's not talking, and that's not like her."

"You said she's manipulative."

"Yes," he said. "But I could always see through her charades. I know her, Admiral. I trained her. I spent two years learning her strengths, her weaknesses, her little quirks. She couldn't hide something like that from me."

Bayis's eyes snapped to his. "Fraternization between ranks is discouraged—"

"I know."

"And she's one of your anomalies. It would be more than discouraged between you. It would be—"

"There's nothing between us," Rykus bit out. He held Bayis's gaze until the admiral relaxed and turned back to the security vid.

Rykus looked at the vid too. There had never been anything between him and Ramie Ashdyn, and not just because a relationship would have resulted in a court martial. No, he knew better than to get involved with Ash because Ash played games. She was an unrepentant tease. It had taken him months to find the woman she kept hidden behind her flirtations, but eventually he had found her. She wasn't a traitor. At least, she hadn't been.

Now?

He watched Ash stare at the gravy dripping off the edge of the data-table.

Now he didn't know what he believed.

When Ash's guard and the medic approached the cell's door, Bayis stepped forward and entered a code into the console beneath the screen. The door slid open, allowing the two men to exit the cell. A minute later, they emerged from the corridor. The admiral acknowledged their salutes then waited until they left before speaking.

"Oh two hundred on the sixth," he said, keeping his voice low. "Operation Star Dive is a go."

The only outward reaction Rykus gave to those words was a small nod, but his insides felt pelted by bullets. After months of political posturing, gambles, and deals, the Senate Intelligence Committee had finally come to a decision. They'd given a go date. In three days, Rykus would lead a contingent of soldiers in a daring, deadly assault on an enemy shipyard. In three days, the Coalition and the Sariceans would be at war.

"She could save lives?" Bayis asked.

Rykus followed his gaze back to Ash.

"Many lives," he said. He hadn't shared the exact projections with Bayis. Rykus was in charge of the _Obsidian's_ Fighting Corps so it was his burden to bear, full gravity, not the admiral's, but the numbers haunted him. Blowing up the shipyard was the easy part of the mission. It was the second phase that would be costly. I-Com wanted Rykus and a select group of soldiers to take over a nearly complete Saricean warship and bring it back to Coalition space.

In one piece.

The last time Rykus had taken over an enemy vessel...

No. Going back to the past wouldn't do him any good. He had to focus on the present and on the future. And if he wanted the majority of his soldiers to make it through the mission alive, he needed the Saricean files decrypted. They contained the schematics for the shipyard. Intel gave him and his men a general idea of what to expect when they arrived, but experience told him general wasn't good enough. A corridor with three doors instead of two could be the difference between life and death. He needed details, and the key to getting them was shackled in the _Obsidian's_ brig.

"Are we certain she changed the cipher?" he asked Bayis.

"None of our algorithms fit the digital signature, and Colonel Evers said she never denied the accusation."

"Evers? How did he capture her?"

Bayis's lip twitched into a smile. Evers was Fighting Corps, but even the admiral knew the man was an idiot, an idiot who had his sights set on a political appointment to I-Com.

"She didn't fight his men when they boarded."

"What?" Rykus bit out.

"She didn't resist arrest."

That didn't make sense. If Ash had killed her teammates and had time to re-encrypt the files, she would have tried to escape before she was escorted onto the _Anthem_ , the ship that had brought her and her deceased teammates back to Coalition space. The fact that she hadn't meant...

"She wants to be here," he murmured.

His murmur was, apparently, loud and clear enough for the admiral to hear.

"Two escape attempts suggest otherwise. Evers said they almost lost her just before they rendezvoused with us. She took down three of her security detail, nearly killed a fourth."

"They underestimated her."

"Yes." Bayis turned to face him fully. "I'm putting you directly in charge of her security. I know the myths surrounding anomalies are exaggerated, but the enlisted ranks are superstitious. I don't want her guards getting trigger-happy if she tries something again."

And she _would_ try something again, Rykus was sure of that.

"What's the ETA on the interrogator?"

"He's coming on the war chancellor's shuttle with the crypties and a medical specialist from Caruth. They should be docking soon." The admiral paused and his brow furrowed as he studied Rykus again. "You think the interrogator can get the cipher in time?"

"I think he'll have a better chance of getting it than the crypties will have of breaking in."

"They're not here to decrypt the files," Bayis said. "They're here for you."

Rykus resisted the urge to pinch the headache growing between his eyes. The two crypties—Cryptologic and Information Warfare specialists—would be part of his assault team. Their job was to infect the Saricean ship—one which might possibly be equipped with new weapon or defense capabilities—with a data-virus that would give the Coalition control of navigation and enviro. The pair was supposedly the best in Coalition space, but Rykus had glanced at their bios. They'd been transferred too many times to be the best. Most likely, they were adequate and dispensable.

He just hoped they had combat training.

"I'll meet with them tonight." He turned back to look at Ash, who still hadn't touched the slop of food dripping off the table. "I want to read through her file again, see if anything seems atypical." Atypical for Ash, at least. "Maybe I can pinpoint when her aberrant behavior began."

"Would it help to use someone close to her for leverage? Threaten them?" Bayis waved the comm-cuff fastened around his wrist over the sensor in the wall console, then typed in his security code. "I believe the addendum to her file mentioned a fiancé."

Rykus was damn lucky the admiral wasn't looking at him. If he had been, he would have seen Rykus's mask shatter for an instant as cold, hard shock knocked him off-orbit.

"Yes. Here it is," Bayis said. "His name is Jevan Valt, a legislative assistant for the senator from Rimmeria. Record says they met last year. He put in a notice of pending marriage about two months ago with his employer—it's required by the senate—but he withdrew it after Ashdyn's arrest. He doesn't think he revealed any classified information, but he's working with Coalition investigators to be sure."

Rykus yanked an invisible blade free from his gut. It never should have wedged itself in there to begin with. Ash had never been his—had never been anyone's—and it was best that way. But maybe that's what bothered him. He never thought she'd allow herself to be shackled to any man. This Valt character couldn't have known Ash at all if he thought she'd settle into a marriage. His cadet wasn't wife material.

And his cadet wasn't a traitor.

Rykus's headache throbbed again. This time he did reach up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Treason. The word cut like shrapnel. He didn't want to believe it. He'd rather Ash be certifiably insane. The loyalty training was supposed to prevent that, but the program was only four years old. It was possible it hadn't solved the problem with anomalies, and if it didn't and Ash's mind had broken, she would be sent back to Caruth for evaluation at the institute.

Rykus dropped his hand to his side. "Who's the medical spec—"

The admiral held up a finger and tilted his head, listening to someone on the voice-link looped around his right ear.

"Yes," Bayis said. "Yes. Good. I'll meet him in my office." He focused on Rykus again. "The war chancellor's shuttle just docked. I need to brief him on Lieutenant Ashdyn and our preparations for Star Dive. He'll want to speak to you as well."

Rykus locked his jaw shut.

"He'll _insist_ on speaking with you," Bayis said. "He came all the way from Meryk to make sure this operation goes smoothly."

"I don't have time to waste on that politician."

"Commander." There was no rebuke in Bayis's tone. He knew Rykus's opinion of Chancellor Hagan. After the infamous hearings three years ago, nearly everyone in the Coalition did.

"I have Ash's records to review, two crypties to brief, an assault plan to triple-check, and I need to meet with Brookins to make sure he isn't having issues with the excess crap I've delegated to him."

"Your XO can handle it." Bayis turned toward the brig's exit.

Rykus walked with him past the security desk then out into the _Obsidian's_ gray-and-white corridor. He almost tripped over a broken sensor box. _Utilitarian_ is how fleet described this ship. If they meant she was useful as a salvage ship, Rykus would agree, but he had his doubts as to whether the ship would hold together under fire. Multiple ceiling panels hung open, spilling the _Obsidian's_ innards into the air.

Rykus ducked beneath a tangled mess of wire. "You sure she's going to be operational in three days?"

"She's not that complicated a ship," Bayis said, a tight pinch in his voice.

Rykus snorted at that. The _Obsidian_ was an ugly box with bulky engines, bulky weapons systems, and most importantly, bulky, outdated computer systems. The latter was the reason they'd pulled the ship out of a museum—a physical, dirt-anchored _museum_ —and were retrofitting her for Star Dive. The war council had decided to send an old, brainless warship into the Sariceans' territory so the enemy wouldn't be able to ransack the systems of the Coalition's newest, sleekest sentient-class ships.

The plan would be called genius if it worked. If it didn't work...

Well, Rykus would most likely be dead if the plan failed. The war and the future of the Coalition would be someone else's problem.

He and Bayis walked past the loud _clank, clank, clank_ of a spacer pounding a wall panel back into place; then they stepped into the _Obsidian's_ central lift. Gears ground as it fought the artificial gravity. Rykus glanced at the admiral, but Bayis kept his attention focused on the lift's oil-smeared door.

"You could always turn the gravity off," Rykus suggested.

Bayis's eyebrows lowered a small, almost imperceptible fraction. He waited until the lift doors groaned open before he responded to Rykus's comment. "I'll be sure to tell the war chancellor you're looking forward to meeting with him."

If Rykus hadn't had a mother lode of responsibilities weighing him down, he might have laughed. Instead, he acknowledged Bayis's victory with a nod that said point-to-you.

They parted ways, and Rykus walked half the length of the ship—not a quick jaunt—before he stopped in the middle of a cross-corridor. He wanted to hole up in his quarters with Ash's file, but if he did, he'd pass out. He hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours, not since he'd learned what Ash had done.

What Ash had _allegedly_ done.

He needed a good shot of energy to make it through the rest of his shift. He could take the lift down to the _Obsidian's_ gym, work off some excess tension until he cleared his head, or he could pump himself full of caffeine in the officer mess hall. The noise and the conversation of the latter might be a good distraction, so he hooked a right turn at the cross-corridor —

And nearly ran into a face from his past.

You can buy _Shades of Treason_here.

Dear Reader,

_Heir to the Empire_ , a Star Wars novel by Timothy Zahn, was my first experience with the genre of science fiction. I snuck into my older brother's room and stole it when I was twelve, and I fell in love with the adventure and magic and danger of interstellar fiction. I've always wanted to write a romance set among the stars. My first published book, _The Shadow Reader_ , began as a science fiction idea. It somehow morphed into an urban fantasy romance, but during the time I wrote that trilogy, spaceships and planets and magical technologies filled my mind.

I also happen to be a fan of stories in which an honorable hero must choose between duty and the love of a woman. Add a little forbidden romance to the mix and high stakes, and I fall in love.

_Shades of Treason_ combines all the tropes I love into a high octane sci-fi adventure that reads like an urban fantasy set in space. Ramie Ashdyn, our heroine, is a kick butt, independent woman with a brutal past. Commander Rhys "Rest in Peace" Rykus is honorable to the core, and Ash is the last person in the universe he should fall in love with. That's what I love the most about this book, and I hope you love reading their story as well. Thank you for taking part in their adventure.

You can buy _Shades of Treason_here.

Sandy Williams has lived and breathed books all her life. When she was a teen, she was always the first to finish her class assignments so that she could read as much as possible before the bell rang. Her grades didn't suffer (much), and she was able to enroll in Texas A&M University. She didn't sneak in novels there, but her college lecture notes are filled with snippets of stories. After she graduated, she decided to turn those snippets into novels.

Sandy writes books with high-octane action adventure infused with a strong shot of romance. She is best known for The Shadow Reader novels, an urban fantasy romance series about a college student who becomes caught up in a fae civil war. When she's not reading or corralling her twin boys, she enjoys playing EuroGames like Dominion, Castles of Burgundy, and Caverna.

For exclusive giveaways and opportunities to receive Sandy's future books early and free, click here.

Now that the fun is over (for this volume), we hope you enjoyed these samples! If you're craving more adventure, you'll be happy to know there will be more Portals volumes to come! To keep updated on Portal releases and the latest in science fiction romance releases, sign up for our newsletter!

# Need More SFR? Check These Sites!

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this volume of Portals, a group venture encompassing excerpts from our science fiction stories which are all available for purchase right now.

The concept behind Project Portals was a way of not only show-casing members stories but also a way to demonstrate the amazing sub-genres and variety of the stories that come under the heading of science fiction romance.

From space opera to post-apocalyptic to soft sci fi romance to hard sci fi romance to action adventure to bio-genetics to military to dystopian to space colonization to alien invasion and many more, the exciting genre of science fiction romance covers it all. And because there are so many sub-genres, you don't have to be a science or tech enthusiast to discover a love of science fiction romance.

Explore the other Portals Volumes here:

One Two Three Four (Coming soon: Five Six Seven)

For lovers of this genre and for those who'd like to explore further, we've compiled details about where to find your new favorite reads and authors.

Visit these virtual stops in the SFR Galaxy of great reads:

SFR Brigade (comprised of over 800 authors of SFR!) Facebook Fan Page | Blog | Newsletter

Veronica Scott's USA Today HEA, weekly new releases in SF&F Romance post, and Amazing Stories Columns Archive

Did you know there is a quarterly magazine devoted to science fiction romance? The Sci-Fi Romance Quarterly is FREE to download.

You can chat on Facebook with your favorite authors on the Science Fiction Romance Facebook Group or in Portals Project.

Or chat with authors and other readers on Goodreads.

No list would be complete without mentioning the awesome:

SFR Station

_Your source for great science fiction romance_

SFR Station on Facebook

The SFR Station is a safe-port for lovers of science fiction romance books. It is a community of authors, bloggers, readers, fans, and publishing professionals dedicated to the genre of science fiction romance. All of the books listed on this site are published by independent authors, small-press or imprint publishers. They have been vetted for quality. Most books are under $5, some are free, and all are great reads! You will find books of all heat levels, from sweet to smoking hot. All love is equal at The Station, and they proudly support authors of LGBTQ, Menage and atypical romance. New books are added weekly. Be sure to join the mailing list for updates on events and giveaways!

And finally, don't forget to visit the authors' websites for more in-depth information about their series and stories.

All the best from the group venture, Project Portals.

# A Special Thank You

The Authors of the Portal Project would like to thank...

Fiona Jayde for steering our multi-author ship to our amazing covers. She is wise and wonderful.

...and...

The Blurb Queen, aka Cathryn Cade, for generously donating the summarizing blurb for this collection. It is not an easy job to write a blurb for one book, let alone summarize ten books into one blurb.

And all of us who have benefited from SFRB would like to note that none of this would have happened had not Laurie A. Green started the Science Fiction Romance Brigade six years ago, and provided a space for 800+ SFR lovers to band together and scheme, er, plan to take over the universe.

# About Science Fiction Romance Brigade

After the smashing success of the December 2009 SFR Holiday Blitz, a multi-blog Science Fiction Romance book giveaway organized by Heather Massey of The Galaxy Express blog, the idea of creating a dedicated SFR community was hatched.

* * *

On March 25th, 2010, the SFR Brigade was launched by Science Fiction Romance writer Laurie A. Green, and a charter group of fellow writers and authors including Sharon Lynn Fisher, Heather Massey, Donna S. Frelick, DL Jackson, Barbara Elsborg, and Arlene Webb. In just over four weeks, the membership exploded to nearly 100 members.

* * *

With a roster of 800+ members, it represents the collective voice of Science Fiction Romance authors, writers, bloggers, professionals and enthusiasts with a joint quest of promoting their favorite genre–Science Fiction Romance.

You can find the Brigade on Facebook and...

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