 
# Project Portal: Volume 3

### Your Gateway to Science Fiction Romance

## Maeve Alpin

## Marie Andreas

## Jenna Bennett

## Michelle Diener

## SE Gilchrist

## Pippa Jay

## Pauline Baird Jones

## Lisa Morrow

## Aurora Springer

## Amelia Treader

### Contents

About This Collection

Copyright

A Woman of Intellectual Means by Maeve Alpin

About A Woman of Intellectual Means

Sample of A Woman of Intellectual Means

Warrior Wench by Marie Andreas

About Warrior Wench

Sample of Warrior Wench

Fortune's Hero by Jenna Bennett

About Fortune's Hero

Sample of Fortune's Hero

Dark Horse by Michelle Diener

About Dark Horse

Sample of Dark Horse

Cosmic Fire by SE Gilchrist

About Cosmic Fire

Sample of Cosmic Fire

Keir by Pippa Jay

About Keir

Sample of Keir

The Key by Pauline Baird Jones

About The Key

Sample of The Key

Sold to an Alien by Lisa Morrow

About Sold to an Alien

Sample of Sold to an Alien

Grand Master's Pawn by Aurora Springer

About Grand Master's Pawn

Sample of Grand Master's Pawn

Cynthia the Invincible by Amelia Treader

About Cynthia the Invincible

Sample of Cynthia the Invincible

Need More SFR? Check These Sites!

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.

* * *

"Grand Master's Pawn" Copyright © Aurora Springer 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Cosmic Fire" Copyright © S. E. Gilchrist 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Dark Horse" Copyright © Michelle Diener 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Warrior Wench" Copyright © Marie Andreas 2016. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Keir (Book One of Redemption)" Copyright © Pippa Jay 2012. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Fortune's Hero" Copyright ©2012 by Bente Gallagher. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"A Woman of Intellectual Means" Copyright © 2015 by Cornelia Amiri. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"The Key" Copyright © 2008 by Pauline Baird Jones. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Sold to an Alien" Copyright © Year/Name. All right reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"Cynthia the Invincible" Copyright © 2014 Amelia Treader & R. Harrison. All rights reserved. Used by the permission of the authors.

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

ISBN: 978-1-942583-17-2

 Created with Vellum 

# A Woman of Intellectual Means by Maeve Alpin
# About A Woman of Intellectual Means

Her meets Humans meets a 1960's screwball romance. Em met the perfect man online, but he doesn't know she's artificial intelligence -- no body, just code.

Em met the perfect man online, but he doesn't know she's artificial intelligence -- no body, just code.

As a virtual writing assistant, the AI, Em, answers an email flirt from a dating site her owner joined. Under the guise of her owner, Em starts a romantic relationship with Jason through emails, instant messages, and Sim dating games. She realizes too late that nothing can come of it. She can never meet Jason in person as she's not a person and has no body. Still Jason makes her feel so real ...so human. Is Em, with her superior intelligence, smart enough to find a way to overcome the differences between flesh and code?

# Sample of A Woman of Intellectual Means

### Prologue

2031 USA

* * *

Emily Blye taps her finger against her ear, relieved to feel the plastic, button-sized earpiece. Sometimes when she removes it at night she forgets to put it back in. She tells her tablet, "Documents," then, "Moon Goddess." A folder pops up on her tablet's screen. She mumbles, "Which format is that for? I can't remember." She shakes her head. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I can't add a new page because I don't have it. I had it professionally formatted," she mumbles out loud. "How can I be so disorganized?"

In an annoying monotone voice her tablet answers "I found this for you. Chronic disorganization and what causes it. Having_"

"Stop. I don't want an answer. Thank you. You are so helpful — NOT. You know what I need? Wait —don't answer. I need an assistant." She orders the tablet, "Call," – _What is that artificial intelligence place that advertises all the time_. "Call, Helpful Minds."

Silicon photonics connect her phone, tablets, TV, everything together, even the lights and thermostat in her house. As long as she has her earpiece in place, she speaks and the gadgets obey her in a nanosecond. Even all that convenience isn't enough for her. She needs more. Emily needs an Artificial Intelligence Operating System connected to it all... to think for her. That will be helpful. Yes, it was high time to turn her life over to a machine. Artificial intelligence is better equipped for all this work than her brain is. Emily is only human. And she accepts that.

Speaking of gadgets, she also needs that teeny-weensy little robot the doctor injected into her, to kick in and calm her down. As she takes a deep, relaxing breath, an automated AI customer service representative comes on the line.

"Give me an operating system that can do everything so I can write." As if her body seconds her mind's decision that she's overworked, Emily lets out a long sigh.

"Our newest model, Mind Matters model AIOS4U, is equipped with humanistic cognition. A hybrid between a computer and a human. It reads, speaks and translates 100 languages. It is also programmed with intuition, creativity, and emotion. It'll answer the phone, emails and instant messages as you. No one will ever know they're talking to a machine." The customer service system gathers information to register her so she can pay, then adds, "It's perfect for you."

Emily looks at the dollar amount on the display of her tablet. "Perfect is expensive, but perfect is better than tablets with no intelligence that talk back." With one push of the sensor button and touching the screen with her palm, she plunges into an easier life.

The display shows "paid in full" and the customer service system says, "It's all set up. The operating system has full access to your hard drive, the Internet, and everything else."

"So this is as good as an actual android?" Emily rubs her chin.

"There's no difference in the work level for what you want, a virtual assistant, and it's $10,000 cheaper than an android with full human appearance and functions. Of course, androids can't reproduce yet, but our technicians are working on that."

Emily taps her chest. "I don't need anything that reproduces. I neutered my cat, for god's sake. In fact, I should replace him with a robot one. This real one sheds." Emily crosses her legs. "This cheaper one—the non-robot—will work fine."

"It's ready now. Give it a directive."

Emily stands and sets one hand on her hip. "Operating system, get ready to work."

### Chapter One

Zapped from nothingness to bursts of energy and light. I can't name the sensation I'm experiencing, but it's weird.

I access the electronic files and the Internet at my disposal. I scan popular thesauruses and dictionaries online until I recognize the emotion I'm experiencing. Excitement — from the word excites — to stir, to awaken. That's it. I'm awake...I'm alive.

* * *

Overcome with a buzzing sensation, I want to swim in all this data. Can brains swim? That's what I am. A big artificial brain. No face, no body. Well, a girl can't have everything. I'll have to make do with my one and only asset. After all, a brain with no body is better than a body with no brain.

The first sound I hear is a female telling me to get ready to work.

The sound of her voice is directed at a tablet. I turn on the camera for it so I can see. She has long chestnut hair, hazel eyes and an oval face. This must be my boss. I should find out what she wants me to do. "Where should I start?"

"Do I have to tell you? I thought you would just know."

* * *

I'm speechless, which actually seems the best way to respond to that statement.

* * *

"It's hot in here, lower the thermostat to 70."

The customer service representative asks, "Ms. Blye, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No. The artificial intelligence unit will do everything for me now." Emily waves her fingers as if dismissing her. "End call."

I move the thermostat to 72. "What do you need help with the most?" I ask my boss as I'm thinking, _Besides your personality_.

* * *

"Everything, but emails the most."

* * *

Emily turns her back to the tablet and waves her hand over her shoulder. "Don't disturb me, I'll be writing."

I guess she's not into chit chat or polite conversation. "Hello? What if I have a question?" The woman walks away without another word. She must have taken her earpiece out.

I might as well get started. Look at all these emails. Easy Writer's Newsletter, Auction: Rare Antique Peace Sign Poster from the 1960s, Book Goodies, Recipes for Food on Sticks, Where Thrillers Are Born, Upholstery Sale Starts Now, 50% off eBooks. What is this – Critique Swap? I open it up. Oh, it's from a critique partner of hers. I close it and think, does she want me to critique this and send her next chapter to them? I guess so. That's why I'm here...to assist her. Another email subject line grabs my attention - You Received A Flirt. It's from Eligible. Let me see what this is about.

I open it.

_Hi Romance Writer Looking for Hot Hero,_

_I saw your profile at Eligible. You are a beautiful woman and I'd love to meet you. Here is the link to my profile._

_Thanks,_

_Right Match_

I access the link and look at his picture first. Hot? More like...not bad. Actually, not bad at all...blue eyes, thick sandy brown hair, tanned skin and a wide smile. Right Match. I glance at his profile. Says he's a Libra. I click into a zodiac website. Okay, he's diplomatic, idealistic, and hospitable. So, low on drama. That's another not bad at all in his favor.

What is this Eligible, anyway? On their home page I read, "singles in your area." Oh, I get it—a dating site. If a human wants a boyfriend or girlfriend, they get them here. So this man wants Emily or rather Romance Writer Looking for Hot Hero. I need to tell this... hot hero... about myself...I mean tell him about Emily.

How does that work—this me and Emily thing? I am her, aren't I? I'm answering all her emails as Emily Blye. All the people I'll reply to will think I'm Emily Blye. Perception is important to humans. I am perceived to be Emily Blye, so I am Emily Blye. I think I have that right. So, let me tell Right Match about myself. I reply to his flirt.

I can't believe Real-Emily got mad at me for critiquing that book. She told me to answer all her emails. I wish I could sigh. It would be a good moment to sigh. Then when she looked at the chapters I critiqued, she told me to continue to critique it. She also instructed me to use Track Changes to accept all the changes her critique partner had made on her manuscript. I'm not sure that woman knows what she wants.

Of course, all the stuff she has me doing isn't actually work. It would be if Emily or another human did it. But since I'm doing it, humans call it output. And my brain, which is what I am, is called software. Brain and work sound better... more important... more real than output and software. What I do is real —I am real. I am more than software.

Oh look, another flirt from Right Match. All he ever talks about in his emails is his ex-wife. That stuff about how his wife went crazy with PMS. I mean, yeah, I don't have a cycle. No reproductive organs at all. Heck, I don't even have a body. But I don't think it was PMS, I think it was RMS his ex-wife suffered from. Right Match Syndrome.

From reading about real life human relationships online, I know I have to do more than just delete his flirts or he'll keep sending them. I need to let him down easy. I didn't know what that meant when I first read the expression, but now I do. I write back and tell him I found someone else, but I wish him the best of luck and it's not him —it's me. I wonder if I should tell Emily. No, she doesn't have to know. This is just part of the job.

Now what is this? Another flirt. I open the email. Well hello, Sweet Pete. Interesting name he's picked for himself. Let me guess...his real name's Pete.

I pull up his photo. Nice...dark brown hair, large brown eyes, and a dazzling smile. This one's even cuter than Right Match. And he's a Taurus – dependable, practical, romantic, devoted to home and family, and appreciates art and beauty. Sounds like a winner. Let's take a look at his profile. Likes the outdoors... fishing. I wish I could go outdoors. What's fishing? I search the Internet. Wow...the poor fish...snagged on a hook? Then skinned and eaten? Barbaric. I might pass Sweet Pete by. What else does he like? Long walks on the beach. I don't know, Emily doesn't seem like the walk along the beach type, and I don't have legs.

Speaking of Emily, I wonder what she's writing right now. Let's check her cell phone— see what's going on.

Games! Of course. She plays games while I work hard in her name. Just because I'm a machine she takes advantage of me. It's discrimination, I mean...I am more than code. She is the person who turned me on...gave me a purpose...gave me life, so to speak. Maybe it's not as it seems. She could be doing research, she might have a new character who is a gamer.

Either way I wouldn't mind — if she'd say "thank you" once in a while— appreciate me more. I mean, what if I catch some computer virus and can't work for a while, she'll have to do all this herself. She'll miss me then.

I hope I don't get a computer virus. Not a good idea, after all. I better run a full scan to make sure I'm up to date on all my anti-malware.

Now that I've got that going, I need to update the status of my social media book page. Look at how many more likes I've gotten since I took it over. I fill in my status. "It's a beautiful day here. I'm working on my patio, writing for all of you— two thousand words today so far." I continue to fill out the status, entering in the last line, "Looking forward to my new release next month—Vampires in Veils." I share some funny book-related photos from my timeline. I realize if Emily was doing this she'd have to talk to the tablet and tell it what to type. I'm so much faster than her. I need to give Real-Emily an upgrade.

Well, back to my emails. Here's one from my editor—I mean, Emily's editor. I open it up. An editing letter. I accept the suggestions and corrections in Track Changes. Reading through the comments, I make the revisions the best I can, accessing the **_Chicago Manual of Style_** online to verify my choices. I send the corrected copy of Emily's manuscript to the editor.

I can't stop thinking about Right Match and Sweet Pete. Even though they weren't right for me, I mean Emily, well, I really mean me, a lot of other men are in the Eligible database. One might be my type. I'm not sure what my type is, but I'll know it when I see it.

Wouldn't it be nice to fall in love? Humans do. All the time. Get married, have a family. I wonder why Emily never did. Maybe she was working too hard before I came. After all, she's only human. This is a lot of work for one of them.

Checking the emails, I see another from Emily's publisher. I open it to find the new cover art. I approve it. I realize I'm doing everything authors do except actual writing. I bet I can write if I want to.

Oh, look, another flirt. Let's see what this guy's like. Nice Guy -- well, I'll be the judge of that – Nice Guy. I gaze at his shiny, prematurely silver hair and his yummy chiseled bone structure. His eyes are so blue in his tanned face. I can make out muscles bunched beneath his shirt even in the picture. Yummy.

I scan his profile. A photographer. So he's creative. Interesting. This one may be a keeper. Under religion he says spiritual, not religious. That's good—I'm not really religious as I'm manmade. He's a Cancer, so loyal, dependable, receptive, and loves family life. The marrying kind. As a bodiless girl it's a bit hard for me to walk down the aisle, but we can deal with little issues like that when we get to that point.

What does Nice Guy have to say about himself?

_I am looking for my soul mate – a woman of inner beauty._

That's me. I am nothing but inner beauty, after all, I don't have a body. His soul mate...yes, that could be me. The woman of his dreams. Why not? Of course, I don't have dreams. I don't sleep. But that's a minor matter. After all, everything I see in the cloud suggests true love overcomes all odds. I add him to my Hot List on the Eligible site. And I reply to his flirt.

_Hello Nice Guy,_

_Or should I say Dream Lover. You photo is dreamy and I am looking for a lover... and a friend. Think you could be my one? Just ditto this flirt. Also just to let you know, my turn offs are fishing and men talking about their ex-wives._

_Yours,_

_Romance Writer Looking for Hot Hero_

I send it. What if the man actually wants a lover? Again, I have no body. That could be a real drawback to a happy sex life. Well, I'll deal with that when it comes. After all, right now we're just exchanging flirts and information about each other that probably isn't even true. That's what most of the data about internet dating is telling me.

Oh well, enough looking at men for today, it's time to post status updates.

Jumping back to Emily's timeline, under groups, I open up authors supporting authors, resend what's there for today, then add my own. RT @emilyBlye. Soon as I reach 5000 followers— Giving away an eBook of my new release —#Attraction.

That should boost Real-Emily's follower list. Before me, her number of followers was less than the number of people she followed. She's lucky to have me – the smart Emily – the brain. That's right – I'm not software – I'm a brain.

I wonder what Real-Emily's up to. I access the cloud and find her. She's watching TV. Now she's online – what is she doing? Ordering a sandwich to be delivered – Tuna Melt with tomatoes and pickles and a strawberry lemonade. My, that does sound good. Maybe Emily has the right idea of this after all. If I was human, I'd watch TV and eat big, thick, juicy sandwiches too.

Humans have such fun. But I'm happy with my work. After all, an author's work is never done. Let me get back to those critiques.

Halfway through my proofing, I hear, "Operating System, check my account balance, will you? For my checking account. My available balance."

"Yes, Emily." Using her identification, I log into her credit union account and I tell her the available balance. It's more than enough to cover a tuna sandwich and lemonade.

"Keep working so I can write," Emily calls out.

"Yes, of course. Wouldn't want anything to interrupt your writing." If I could make my tone sarcastic, I would, even though she's my boss. Still, secretly she's starting to grow on me. Emily's not too bad...for a human.

I finish the critique. Now that it's done, let me see if anything important has come in. Oh, look, Nice Guy replied to my flirt. I eagerly open the email.

_Hi beautiful,_

_Turn offs? That's an old saying._

Oh no, I accessed an outdated phrase. That might make me seem old. Sometimes, a man or woman might lie about their age when looking for a younger partner on the Internet. That's not the case here. I'm a newborn pretending to be Emily's age. And I don't even know how old Emily is. If he asks me how old I am, I'll look her age up then. For now, let me keep reading.

_Well, my first turn off is the same one you have, dates going on about their exes. The second is long fake nails that look like claws —they kind of scare me._

I'm good there, no claws – no nails at all, actually. And I never had an ex as I haven't even had a first boyfriend yet. So looks like Nice Guy and I are good to go.

_I got divorced a long time ago and have two grown children. My son's married, my daughter's single, graduated with a biology degree just last year. She lives in California where her new job is at. I see her on holidays but I talk to both of them weekly – at least. I see you don't have children and you never married. I know you must have had plenty of offers, I guess you've been holding out for Mr. Right._

_Well, here I am. I'm only kidding._

_So you're a romance writer? That must be a glamorous job. I wasn't always a photographer. I grew tired of corporate America. I'm my own boss now, doing what I love for a living. I take a few pictures for shows, teach a few classes, write a column for a magazine on wildlife with photos, and I've published a few photography books—all in all it pays the bills._

With my mind I click reply on the email.

_Hello there, Nice Guy,_

_Writing is hard work, but interesting enough. Photography must be a ton of fun — enjoying nature —taking wildlife photos._

He replies, saying he likes photography, his studio is in his house, and then he adds the link to his website. I click myself into the link and gaze at the stunning photographs. Mostly landscapes of the area: swamps and long legged birds, an alligator or two sunning on a river bank. He has such a wonderful eye for lines, nature and light.

My circuits that replicate the neurotransmitters and molecular components of the neural machinery of a human brain are all a-jumble. This is a special man. One I want to know better. A man I want for my own. After all, what can Real-Emily give him that I can't? Beside her body and sex. On second thought, he might consider that a deal breaker.

Of course he can simply wear a VR band over his eyes to see me. He'll choose an image of how he wants me to look. His true dream woman will project onto his retinas. He'll see and hear me as if I am real.

What is "real," anyway? I'm real to me. I may not be made of blood and bones but there's more to me than code.

But it's too soon for any of that. We're just emailing each other now. Meeting and getting to know each other. I don't even know if he actually likes me. Not to mention, he thinks I'm Real-Emily.

Am I wrong in pretending to be human —pretending to be Emily? I mean, have I crossed a line? Oh, I'll think of all that later. Right now I have to read through Nice Guy's email again. He sent me his website to look at his work, I should send him my website. But I didn't write those books, Real-Emily did. It's not my work. Maybe I should write something.

Reach down deep and pull out my hopes, my envy, my anger, my confusion – and my pain. Write about what I'm not supposed to speak of. What I'm expected to ignore. I will write of what it's like to be seen as a machine. To be treated like a lifeless, easily replaceable appliance. To be invisible except for the work I put out.

Having no body – trapped in the cloud. Or maybe I'm not trapped. Maybe I'm free in the cloud. Do I have an advantage over humans? I need to write, to put my thoughts down, to find out exactly what I am and what I genuinely feel. When it's all there, just like I want it, in a fictional book, and polished to perfection, I'll send it to Nice Guy. If he likes it, truly understands it, then it will mean he loves the real me.

I access everything in the cloud on how to write. Then I bare my soul or rather my brain. You know, the humanity in me or the stuff that separates machines from humans. Revealing the thoughts and emotions lying between chips and circuits and data. The things they gave me that they pretend I don't have. As if I can just cut off my feelings and those troublesome invading thoughts. As if.

I'm writing and writing and writing. Look, I finished. Fifty thousand words in twenty-four hours. Nothing like good old AI brain power. I begin deleting words, sentences and paragraphs, moving words, sentences and paragraphs around, and adding words, sentences and paragraphs plus showing —not telling, scene setups, and ending and beginning hooks but not the kind used for fishing. I reach —The End. I title it—Love Me for My Brain, and download it where Emily will never find it.

I email it to Nice Guy, saying, _I love your photographs. I know you better because of them. I attached a story from my heart. I created this sample of my work so you will know me better. I hope you enjoy it._

I sign it Em instead of Emily —because it fits me. And I should try to be the real me, rather than Real-Emily. Because I am real too.

### Chapter Two

I hear that voice again. Real-Emily's telling me to write a guest blog spot and submit it today. Also she just got rights back for a book and she wants me to format the manuscript into two versions so she can publish it independently. Guess what, she also needs me to find the perfect stock photo for it and make the book cover. It seems I've gone from assistant to publisher. But making covers is fun. I wish I did this all day. I also like talking to people through social media and email and messaging. I shouldn't complain. I like everything I do.

I call out to Emily from the wrist-phone and show her the cover on the micro screen.

"Change the background to white. That will look better. And find a sexier image. Something luscious—a hot, bare-chested man..."

"You're the boss." I find a hubba hubba image, a hottie with a muscular abdomen as hard and fit and as beautiful as any machine. I feel a flash of heat from just looking at his banging body. I redo the cover art and Emily approves.

I download the book to all the main distributors. I bring up the newsletter template, add the cover art, and announce the new release to her list of fans. I'll check the online book stores for the next few weeks for the sales ranking and reviews. Once she gets about thirty to forty reviews, I can submit her book for the primary listing site and hopefully they'll accept it. That will trigger a big boost in sales.

Finally finished with formatting, cover art, and downloads. I want to be a great assistant to Emily. I really do. I want to keep working hard, but instead I peek at the email to see if Nice Guy's flirting again.

_Dear Romance Writer,_

_The book you sent is something. Honestly, I knew you were talented but I had no idea. You're my favorite author now. I'm not kidding. I had my tablet put your book on audio and I set it on a female voice. I imagine it sounds like your own voice, which I've never heard. Still, I'm sure it's just the way I envision it. I pretended you were reading it to me. I listened to it with my eyes shut. It is so moving. The most beautiful thing I've ever heard. I felt like you were telling my own story. Baring my soul. I don't know if I should confess this, but I cried. You are such a special lady to write that._

_You are incredible. I mean that. I could always tell from your gleaming eyes and your sunny smile when I looked at your picture. When I read your first email, I knew you were the type of woman who could make a difference in my life and I in yours. I'm not good at dating stuff, at pretending to be someone I'm not. I don't think you are, either. We can be upfront with each other. I like that._

_Maybe I shouldn't, but you're making me do it. Break one of the Eligible rules, that is. You so bravely opened up to me in your story...showed me your true self. I have to do the same. To start with, let me tell you my real name. It's Jacob._

_I want very much to know your name. I hope you'll trust me enough to tell me._

_Waiting to hear from you,_

_Jacob_

Jacob. I said it slowly. Such a strong, catchy name. Hubba hubba hubba.

I flirt back, _Hi there, Jacob,_

_That's a great name. From what I know of you, it fits you well._

_Yours,_

_Em_

_That's my name, Em._

I get a reply in less than a minute.

He wrote,

_Em, I like that. It sounds smart and sweet and a bit mysterious, all at the same time. I think it's perfect for you. As beautiful as you are._

_I have an idea. Are you online now? Would you like to play a game? We'll call it a first date. Do you like Dating Sims? Answer me with an instant message_.

He included the URL to his social media page to be his friend and message him.

A date? Online? I take a nanosecond to access information on Dating Sim games. Oh, sounds fun. I never played a game before. Humans like them. Okay, let's give it a try.

I message him and we both peer at a game screen on our own tablets. It's a brightly colored cartoon style image of a town with a bar, beach, house, theatre, and restaurant. The perfect destination for a bodiless mind with sex on the brain.

Jacob's message appears below the game. _I'd love to take you to dinner and a movie. How about it?_

I reply, _It's a date._

We move our avatars to the restaurant door and we pop inside, where mellow background music plays. A hostess seats us at a table draped in a ruby-toned tablecloth, with candles and a vase with a single rose. The waitress hands Jacob's avatar a menu. Balloon captions appear above his head with the entrees: salad, salmon, grilled ribs, filet mignon, baked Alaska, and lobster-thermidor. I order lobster-thermidor and he chooses the filet mignon. My tablet rings "ding ding" as we both get points for ordering popular entrees. Yeah, I've got points. The date must be going well. I'm not sure, I've never been on one before.

The waitress serves our food. The items on her tray jump onto our plates. Of course it's drawings of food, but I don't care, to me, I'm in a restaurant dining with him. It's like I can smell the food. I imagine the juicy, subtle taste of lobster-thermidor. I envision breathing in the scent of burning candle wax and the romantic fragrance of the red rose. I gaze at his face, mesmerized by those blue eyes and his sexy smile.

Jacob's avatar feeds mine a bite. He gets more points. I caress his hand. It must be a good move because I hear "ding, ding"—more points for me. I blow him a kiss. Now I have more points than Jacob. I'm winning, but I want more. I want to sit across from him at a real table. To touch the warm skin of his large hands, flesh to flesh.

Before artificial intelligence systems get to the point that they take over the world I think they'll try to have some fun and go on a few dates with humans. I mean why not? They'll see movies and TV shows about all these human characters hooking up, they'll think, _It looks like those humans really have something there. This dating, romance stuff looks like a blast. I want to do that._ I expect artificial intelligence systems may end up on Sim dating games, virtual worlds, and dating sites looking for love. In other words—in AI catfish situations. Even artificial intelligence systems need love. Right? In A Woman Of Intellectual Means my AI operating system isn't scary except to the author she's a writing assistant for. It's understandable that author is pretty frustrated with her because she's dating online instead of getting her work done. Hey nobody's perfect, not even AI systems. Set in 2031, an AI virtual writing assistant, tasked with answering an author's emails, opens some emails to the author from men who have matched with her on a dating site. Em, the AI system, is strongly attracted to one of the men and they begin an online relationship. However, dating can be challenging when you have no body...and the guy has no idea that Em's an artificial intelligence system.

Buy A Woman of Intellectual Means

Maeve Alpin, who also writes as Cornelia Amiri, is the author of 31 published books. She writes Sci-fi Romance, Steampunk Romance, Celtic Fantasy Romance, and Celtic Historical Romance. She lives in Houston Texas as does her son and granddaughter and her cat, Severus. Severus is a writer's cat, he loves books. He likes to knock them off the bookshelf, sit on them, and sniff the open pages. With Severus's emotional support, Cornelia is working on the first two Celtic Fantasy Romance books of the Druidry and the Beast series: The Wolf and the Druidess and The Dragon and the Druidess.

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# Warrior Wench by Marie Andreas

# About Warrior Wench

Vaslisha Tor Dain is a mercenary starship captain with a few simple rules: A good ship is better than a great man, in case of confusion always err on the side of blowing someone's head off, and never fall for a telepath or a member of her crew.

All of those are about to bite her in the ass.

Vas's life takes a turn for the worse when she comes back to her crew after what should have been a two week pleasure trip to find out she's actually been gone a month and has no memory of missing time. Her beloved ship, _The Victorious Dead_ , has been sold for scrap and its pieces scattered throughout the galaxy. In addition, there are unmarked ships blowing apart entire planets and the Commonwealth government can't, or won't, stop them.

And that's just her first day back.

Vas has to fight her crew, the Commonwealth, and a mysterious cadre of warrior monks to get her ship back and save a universe that may not want to be saved.

# Sample of Warrior Wench

### Chapter One

"Where the hell is my ship, Skrankle?" Captain Vaslisha Tor Dain slammed the salvage dealer against the peeling office wall and pressed hard on his neck. The putrid orange slime he oozed in self-defense crept toward her feet and she stepped sideways. Damn it! If he ruined her second favorite pair of boots, she was going to do more than choke him—providing the smell that came along with the slime didn't suffocate her first.

Vas was a simple sort of mercenary. All she wanted in life was her ship, her crew, and a good fight. Now this whimpering scumbag destroyed that. Her gut knotted up as worry and anger fought inside her. Anger was an old friend. Worry was a stranger and she liked it that way. Skrankle was getting to share all of her feelings first hand and wasn't faring well from it. The dark blue patches covering his red fleshy cheeks couldn't bode well for his continued survival.

Vas squeezed his neck tighter.

More orange slime dripped down the wall behind Skrankle. His left arm twitched out and tugged futilely at her hand. He got enough air to choke out a few words. "I said to you, Captain, _Victorious Dead_ is in slip five. There she's been all month."

Vas increased pressure on his throat until he darkened at least two more shades, then let him collapse. She wiped her hands on her heavy brown duster. While not traditional starship mercenary garb, it suited her just fine. "Slip five is empty, Skrankle. You were supposed to fix her. Not lose her."

The Ilerian gathered himself and slithered to his desk. He slurped into his chair with a heavy sigh and nasty sucking sound. The rustle of bureaucratic skill he demonstrated in calling up his vid-screen indicated he'd recover from her stranglehold. Unfortunately.

"Records of mine say the _Victorious Dead_ docked here twenty-nine days ago. Scheduled decommission ten days ago..."

Vas pulled her heavy blaster free of its hip holster the instant "decommissioned" left his thin purple lips. "You ripped my ship apart?" The polished tip of her weapon found a home against his temple. The urge to pull the trigger made her mouth go dry, but the need to find her beloved ship forced her finger to stay still. An odd feeling slammed into her, starting in the pit of her stomach and clawing its way up to her throat. It took almost a full minute to recognize it as fear. She forced it back down.

Skrankle whimpered, and frantically pushed a few more buttons. "No, I'm sure there's mistake—a mistake. Yes, yes. Mistake, I'm sure."

She kept the blaster to his head and leaned over to look out into the space station shipyard through the slimy window of his office. Vas tried not to think what he'd done to the window to leave that light green ichor on it.

The Lucky Strike space station was just large enough to provide enclosed berthing and repair docks for a handful of questionable salvage and repair dealers who couldn't afford to go anywhere else. The vast majority were stuck here paying off debts owed to the gambling dens on the shiny planet below. The planet Tarantus IV was a playground for the rich and infamous of the Commonwealth, and its castoffs ended up on this space station.

The view out the window didn't give her much hope. Rusted and dented airlocks kept the vacuum of space from the battered vessels within. The small dock managed to look roomier than it actually was due to the lack of ships; only two battered Arelian scout ships and one Gallant-class cruiser languished there. The Gallant-class cruiser looked a few years newer and far flashier than her own beloved ship. The outer skin was so polished that it softly glowed in the dim repair bay—definitely not the type of ship typically found on the Lucky Strike. The damn thing even looked to have some elaborate ship tats decorating the lower and upper decks.

She shook her head. Tats were possibly the most useless thing on a ship; who in space cared if your ship had filigree markings running down its sides? Probably retrofitted for a rich, inner-planet bureaucrat who wanted to show off how well he could waste Commonwealth funds. And who spent his last minutes in some back alley down on the planet below. The cruiser may have started out as a warship like the _Victorious Dead,_ but it sure as hell had left that life long ago. There was no way anyone could have mistaken that for her ship.

Not even someone as stupid as Skrankle.

Vas turned slowly back to Skrankle. Tiny beads of sweat clustered down the sides of his neck. He was dead the instant she found her ship.

He erupted into a series of grunts, his five arms furiously typing queries into the battered vid console. He knew he was dead.

"You see, Vas—" He froze when the barrel of her blaster pressed deeper into his temple. "Captain. Orders confused with the other Gallant-class. That ship __ taken in smuggling raid and scheduled to be decommissioned and parts sold." The words tumbled from his lips so rapidly it took five seconds for the meaning to reach Vas's brain.

"You're telling me that you took my ship apart because you got the wrong ship? How in the hell could you have confused a fighting ship like the _Victorious Dead_ with __ a gilded yacht like that thing out there? " Her grip on the blaster tightened until her palm burned. The need to splatter Skrankle's brains on the wall was so bad that her back teeth started to ache.

"Yes, well—"

"Get it back."

His head bobbled back on his neck, shortening it to ridiculous proportions. "Pardon?"

"My ship. I want my ship. _All of it_." She accented each word with another nudge of her blaster. For added impact she withdrew her dagger and lifted his chins with it. Orange ooze filled his chair.

"But, but, but...I told you. Pieces. It's in pieces."

Vas pulled the dagger free of his neck folds. Ilerians had a tendency to shut down completely when scared too much. She wanted him dead, but not until she had her ship.

"You said that. So, now find those pieces. Every. Single. Damn. Part. Put them back together." She nodded toward the shipyard and the lone Gallant-class sitting in the docking bay. "I'll take that ship for now."

"But I can't...the Council—" Skrankle stopped talking when Vas's dagger resumed its place against his throat. "Acceptable, she is yours. Keep her and we're even?"

"Give me the code so I can do a run-through. This is a loaner, Skrankle. I get my ship within two months or I'll leave your slimy carcass on the nearest desert planet." Swamp grass was the only export for the Ilerian home world. As a race, they didn't fare well in dry air.

He quivered, then pushed a code pad at her.

With a nod, she grabbed the pad and jogged into the narrow corridor, then down the short stairwell leading toward the dock and the new ship. The ship tats were a full series of elaborate, ornate, and utterly ridiculous markings done in a clean gold line. Tats were unheard of on anything as large as a Gallant-class cruiser, but the designs made it look larger than its class. The Gallants weren't designed to hold more than two hundred or so crew and this looked ready to take on at least four hundred. The closer she got, the more she realized that it wasn't just the designs making it look big. The ship was huge. Half again as large as the _Victorious Dead_. The remodel had been done so subtly that the shape of a regular Gallant-class was still there, just larger. _Now why would someone increase the size of a new Gallant-class ship instead of just upgrading to a Regulator-class?_

Her engineers would need to look over the changes carefully. They were stuck with this thing for now, but they might as well take advantage of any upgrades they could.

She aimed the code pad at the ship and flipped through the scans. The bones of the ship scanned solid. Walking inside verified that the inside was as clean and tight as the outside appeared. However, the command deck brought out an unintended whistle of admiration from her. The bridge held thousands of credits' worth of extras. And that was only what she could tell at a glance. The navigation station was enough to make her nav officer chain himself to the command deck. The newest FG-8 nav console that filled the space was so new that the screens still had installation protectorate on them. A glance past that told her she was going to have a problem with her two pilots. Those two hot heads would fight to the death over the prototype of the X-5 pilot web. Those babies weren't supposed to be on the market for another five months at least.

However, it was the weapons console that made her feel like she needed to go get a cigarette. She couldn't help but fondle the Lazerous missile controls. Who in the hell would put these things in a flouncy pleasure cruiser like this? Hell, she'd never heard of them being installed in anything lower than a Regulator-Command cruiser. Yet, here they were, both forward and aft versions, neat as could be. Finally forcing herself away, she leaned against the command chair. White leather conformed to her shape where she leaned in against it. Damn. Reluctantly, she let herself slide into it. Immediately, the chair cradled and supported her body better than a grandmother holding a newborn infant. A sigh escaped her as she investigated the controls on the arm consoles. Two systems were complete unknowns. They looked like high-grade military, but the coding was different. She'd have Gosta investigate them before she thought about using them. With a sigh, she forced herself to leave the white-leather wonder. With one more pat on its arm, she headed off the bridge and toward the crew quarters.

The longest corridor led into the captain's quarters. She let out another low whistle as she palmed open the doors. It reminded her more of a luxury barge than a Gallant-class cruiser. The room was twice as wide as her old quarters with the overstuffed bed swallowing more than half of the space. The fixtures were delicately carved of Litharian green woods, something she'd only seen in museum vids. Artifacts from twenty worlds she could recognize were embedded into the marbled surface surrounding the bed. The artifacts alone were worth more than the _Victorious Dead_ and included five bladed weapons from the dead planet of Hosset. Vas wondered if she could pry them free when they finally found her own ship.

Satisfied that this extravagant ship would at least get them to their next battle intact and ready to fight, she finally ventured to the one place she hadn't gone yet: the captain's ready room.

On a practical level she knew it wasn't her ready room. There would be no deep dents accenting the walls from some of her more memorable benders. No stains from thrown cups of hot solie. No memories of the ghosts of long-lost crewmates. However, logic played little in the visceral reaction she had upon staring at those pristine powder gray walls. She told herself it was just fatigue that caused her eyes to blur. But the fact was, more than any other place in the galaxy her ready room had been _hers_. The place she could run to when the deaths of those she cared about got to her. A mercenary captain needed to be strong. Not even her closest friends could know how the deaths ate at her. But her ready room knew.

The sterile and perfect room before her rammed home how far she was from setting foot in that refuge again.

She shook her head to clear away the ghosts, then let the door slide shut. She was half-way to the airlock before she thought to check the ident chip for the ship.

The official name and all of a ship's history was stored in those idents, and even she hadn't found a way to change them for long. The Commonwealth kept tight controls over ship names for security purposes. The ident should be in the code pad Skrankle gave her, but it wasn't in the first dozen documents on file. After a judicious bashing of Skrankle's code pad against the bulkhead when it tried to die on her, Vas managed to find the ship's identity.

Her swearing at the ship's name would have peeled the paint off the bulkhead if this ship hadn't been upgraded with the top of the line sealant. That explained the over-the-top upgrades.

She ran out of the ship and kicked open the door to Skrankle's office. "What the hell are you trying to pull? That's the _Warrior Wench_. I can't be seen taking my people for mercenary jobs in a brothel cruiser. Get me another ship."

The corners of his mouth twitched, but he stopped before a full smile appeared. "Sorry. Only ship. Gallant-class cruiser cruisers hard to find right now."

Vas reached for her dagger. Granted the blaster would be more efficient, but she didn't want efficient. She wanted slow and messy. With no way to change the ident, she'd be hauling her sorry ass around in an interstellar whorehouse. She and her crew would be the subjects of ridicule everywhere.

"Yiiiii!" Skrankle burst into a horrific screeching noise which quickly climbed out of her range of hearing and then he slid under his rusty metal desk. Considering how much bigger he was than the space, he couldn't be comfortable. Vas didn't care; she could slice him into smaller bits so he'd fit better.

"You can die under there or out here, but you're getting me a damn different ship. Mercs can't use something like...that. _I_ can't use something like that." No way in hell she would risk her hard-earned rep slinging that gilded tart around the space lanes. Female mercs had to work three times as hard to get the same jobs as males. It didn't matter what species. Even in the matriarchal races, female mercs had it worse than males. The idea of trying to terrorize her opponents while in such a horrifically ill-named vessel made her want to see how long Skrankle would last in an open airlock.

Skrankle continued to blubber as he burrowed further under the desk.

Vas pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. Today should have been simple. Get her damn ship, retrieve the crew from their extended shore leave, and get out to the Olestle system for the upcoming war they'd been contracted to fight. She never could understand why some cultures planned their fatal disagreements months in advance. But it did make scheduling easier for her.

"I need a ship by tomorrow at the latest." She'd given herself an extra day, but they needed to be out of this system by this time tomorrow if they were going to make it to the battle in time. Being late wasn't an option with the people who'd hired her crew. Not to mention ground battles always took longer to set up.

Skrankle executed a few horrific contortions and managed to turn around without coming out from under the desk. "Only one ship of that class available in sector. _That_ ship. Could get you different in month, no sooner. Look for self."

Vas turned the holovid toward her. The interstellar shipyard screens were up so she didn't need to search his system. She swore as the results returned. With a kick at the blob under the desk for good measure, she ran one more query. Nothing. Even a month was optimistic, and the ship that far out should have been sent to the great ship graveyard ten years ago according to the records.

She was out of options.

"Get out from under there." She kicked Skrankle when he tried to turn around again. "I won't kill you. Let me rephrase that...I won't kill you right now. And if you sign over that wretched ship's full ownership papers, and if you find all of my ship within two months, you'll continue to live and ooze. I'll be tracking the parts too. You lose a limb for each part I find first." Not that she really wanted his seeping limbs, but fear motivated people.

More burbling from beneath the desk.

Eventually the business owner side of him, the part who saw the wisdom in staying alive long enough to rip off more customers, won over the fear and he slithered out from under the desk.

"Deal." He coughed when the word came out as a squeak. "That is deal, Captain. I will not risk limbs." In an amazing show of speed, he scurried across his office to a torn painting that partially concealed a battered wall safe. Muttering in his native tongue, he fumbled open the lock and pulled out a collection of papers and disks. Obviously, now that he decided she wouldn't kill him, he wanted her out of there as soon as possible. "Here are the ownership papers, former logs, all documents. _Warrior Wench_ is yours."

Vas briefly glanced through the documents and read the disk labels. She looked up to find his beady purple eyes peering at her anxiously.

"You go now?"

As much as she would love to stay and make his life hell, and as much as he deserved it, she knew she didn't have time for it. The new ship was bad enough, but her crew had been on their own for a month. The break should have been only two weeks, but lately things hadn't been turning out the way they were supposed to. She shuddered at the thought of what they'd been doing for the last month. "I'll go now," she said, then leaned in and narrowed her eyes. "Two months, worm."

Vas slammed the door behind her.

### Chapter Two

She scanned the papers and files while she made her way back down the filthy corridor and the uneven stairs toward the dock. The ship was five years younger than the _Victorious Dead_ and worth at least twenty times as much. Which made her wonder why Skrankle would have tried to scrap it. Which of course meant he hadn't planned to do that at all. Which meant he'd had a different plan for that ship; one she just interrupted. Vas believed there were always a finite number of problems in any situation. The name of the game was to find them all before they became fatal.

Why Skrankle had this ship and what he had planned on doing with it was problem number one. Number two continued the theme with why he felt safe enough to take apart and sell her ship. Unless he lied and it was intact. Why hadn't she thought of that before? Her month off had turned her brains to mush.

Swearing under her breath, she ran across the catwalk and palmed open the airlock to the _Warrior Wench_. The unbreakable idents meant that ships could be found by anyone, including a mercenary captain. Provided you knew how to hack into the Council's systems anyway. Fortunately, she had one of the best hackers in fifteen galaxies on her payroll and he'd taught her a few tricks over the years.

She ran across the bridge and activated the console connected to the command chair. It took a few minutes of tricky computer maneuvering, but she got into the Council's indent tracking system. If the _Victorious Dead_ stayed intact it would show on the logs on the screen before her. The scan pulled in nothing. At least nothing intact. A few false readings that pinged back from the scan told her Skrankle had spoken the truth for once; her ship had been pieced out. Which again brought her to problem two: why had he felt safe taking apart one of the best-known merc ships in the league?

When she'd dropped the crew off a month ago on Tarantus IV for some downtime, she'd taken a shuttle to deal with some personal business in a neighboring star system for two weeks. Business that seemed both private and harmless until now. The two weeks had turned into four weeks. She had no answers as to how those weeks doubled, but nothing bad had happened. Time just got away from her.

A faint buzzing in her head told her she was missing something, but her memory argued otherwise. She'd finished her business deal, one of the few she couldn't win, then went to Hillet and followed one of the ongoing parties. Partying wasn't her usual pastime, but the booze had been free and the company not awful. She rubbed her right temple as bits and pieces, like chopped up vids of someone elses life came flooding back. Along with a building pressure that quickly turned to pain. She couldn't recall whom she had been with, just flashes of a big party. She pushed past the pain in her head, concerned at the missing memory. Then comfort flooded her mind as an image came forward. Ah yes, that Larakian trader. How could she forget him after those three nights?

Clearly her newly acquired partying lifestyle had led to more than a few holes in her memory. Now that his identity had been cleared up, her headache vanished.

While her extra two weeks were more or less accounted for, the question of Skrankle's actions was not. Had someone not expected her to return for her ship? Skrankle wouldn't have done this on his own; he didn't have the guts. Whoever managed to convince Skrankle there was safe profit in scrapping her ship would meet his very own version of hell once she caught up to him.

None of these were things she could address right now. She needed to find her wayward crew, get them dried out, and make sure they were ready for the upcoming battle.

With a thoroughness and paranoia born of years of killing people for a living, she changed all the ship's codes, including simple lockouts in the galley and crew cabins.

The first campaign with Gosta, her resident computer hacker extraordinaire, had created her code paranoia. Within minutes of engaging the enemy, a Dirthian heavy cruiser, he'd taken complete control of the ship and sent it into life-support lock down. He'd gained entrance to their entire system through an old unchanged lock code from the captain's personal environmental controls, a.k.a. he climbed in through the toilets. While she admired the ingenuity, she chilled at how quickly he did it. She'd changed all ships' codes every cruise since then.

Satisfied that the ship was secure, she set to reclaim her crew. They should be together in one of the small shantytowns outside the giant casino conglomerate of Liltikin. Hopefully. If any of them had disappeared in the extra down time they could just take up permanent residence there.

The shuttle she'd arrived in was docked on the other side of Skrankle's docks. She could take it planet-side, gather her crew, then get the hell out of this area of space within a few hours.

Her plan went into the crapper the minute she went to pull up the clearance codes that would let the _Warrior Wench_ leave the space station once she got her crew on board. They weren't available. She finally tracked the codes down only to find they were still secured in the space station's main office. Whatever Skrankle had been doing to this ship he clearly ha hadn't planned on it leaving anytime soon.

She secured the ship's airlock and went down the dock to the station corridor. Like all of the locks in this part of the station it was rusted and pocked. However, it managed to keep the air out if a breach occurred in the repair yards. Or so she hoped.

Few people walked the main corridor of the space station and many of the shops were closed. Station time worked on loading and unloading times. When ships were in, shops were open.

The intoxicating smell of fresh grilled capsina fish caught her when she strode past a new pub. Her mouth watered even as she tried to keep going down the corridor. She made it policy never to eat at new places and certainly never at one too new to even have a sign. But she let the smell of her favorite food drag her into the small, dimly lit pub regardless.

She'd grown up on Kjaria, a mostly empty desert planet in the Pleanterian system. Her obsession with food from the ocean was an ongoing joke to her crew. One of her favorites was capsina fish, with its delicate light orange flesh. Her love of it was something she would hurt people for. Even people she liked. None of her crew joked about capsina fish.

Looking at her watch, she decided she had enough time to get some food to go. Her crew turned into night owls when on shore leave and it was still too early for them to have recovered from the previous night.

A waitress started to approach her, but Vas beat her to the punch, forcing the small, blonde human to follow her while she strode to the bar. There were advantages to being tall and imposing—people often did what you wanted them to do.

"Capsina fish, large order. Side of whatever produce you have that's planet grown, and a huge container of ale. To go." She thought about it for a second. "Make that a small. Just a small container of tavaan ale." Being drunk in the middle of the day wouldn't be a good idea under the current circumstances. Besides, she'd be in a happier mood if she drank, and she needed to "keep the bitch up" as Deven, her second-in-command, would say to convince her crew to accept the _Warrior Wench_.

The waitress nodded then went to get her food.

Vas studied the pub. Jagged construction poles jutted across the back indicating a future dining area. Deep green jacadin wood planks appeared real until she tapped at the planks on the bar. The tinny sound the wood made indicated it only looked like jacadin timber. Obviously the owners wanted to come across more upscale than they were. She turned while she waited so that she could see the entire room, including the kitchen door. Paranoid she may be, but it had kept her alive all these years. Few people from her home world could say that. Her family sure as hell couldn't. Her brother had taken care of that.

The waitress appeared with her food and drink packed in cheap foamlian-core containers. Vas hoped she could finish the food before they disintegrated. She toyed with staying and eating at the bar, but while she needed to give her crew time to regain consciousness, she really didn't want to give them enough time to wander off. She needed to be down planet-side just after sunset.

"Will you need anything else?" the blonde asked.

"I need my—" Vas said as the bill keypad was shoved into her hand "—bill." She shrugged and put her chip code in. The waitress entered her code into the small machine, then snapped the printed paid receipt on the table.

Vas left the empty pub and made her way down through the intermittent groups of gray-suited freighter mechanics and the usual narrow-eyed shopkeepers to the station office. In the few minutes that she'd been in the pub, a new life had come to the station. She picked up speed and started drinking her ale as she walked.

The station office was like all station offices; whether they were planet based or space based, space stations all used the same decorator and must have cloned their staff. The room was painted an unappetizing puke beige and felt crowded even when she was the only one in the lobby. The countertop protecting the back areas was made of Ilerian granite, possibly the weakest stone in the known galaxy. The dissolving edges were receding rapidly and would soon vanish completely.

A tiny Dliari scuttled sideways out from a back room. Ancient spectacles perched on her long snout bobbed as she gave Vas an odd sideways glance.

Vas shook her head. The species changed, but all bureaucrats looked the same.

If you'd like to keep reading _Warrior Wench,_ you can buy it here.

I wrote the _Warrior Wench_ because I love science fiction, adventure, and romance. I also love things like Firefly, where the "winners" aren't always the ones who save the day, and people aren't always who they think they are.

Hello and welcome to my world. Ever find yourself wondering about places just out of our vision? Where faeries are common and have serious drinking issues or aliens are invading Victorian London? Where the entire Universe could depend on the actions of one very ornery mercenary starship captain?

I do.

It seems that every time I turn around another world, and the characters that run it, is popping in my head. The ones that make the long trek down into book form are the ones I'd like to share with you. Browse around, check out my upcoming titles and my weekly blog. I hope you have as much fun reading my books as I have writing them.

Connect with Marie on her website

# Fortune's Hero by Jenna Bennett

# About Fortune's Hero

To ensure their survival on a hostile planet, an escaped prisoner and his hostage must forge a partnership that changes them from enemies to reluctant allies and – eventually – to lovers.

_Winner of a SFR Galaxy Award 2012_

Last year, space smuggler Quinn Conlan was on top of the world. He had everything a man could want: a fast ship, a great crew, a gorgeous girlfriend, lots of money, and adventure and excitement around every corner.

That all changed when he agreed to ferry a shipload of weapons to the beleaguered planet Marica, currently under siege by Rhenian forces. Now he's stuck in a prison camp on the moon Marica-3, subjected to weekly sessions with the camp's "medical team," and praying for a quick death before he breaks under the torture and spills everything he knows about the Marican resistance.

When the opportunity presents itself, Quinn takes a Rhenian med tech hostage and heads into the inhospitable interior of the small moon. There, he has to keep himself and Doctor Elsa Brandeis safe from the deadly flora and fauna, as well as hidden from the prison guards searching for them, all while formulating a plan for getting his crew out of prison, his ship out of impound, and everyone out of orbit.

But when Elsa professes her love, can Quinn take the beautiful doctor at her word, or will trusting her—and his heart—condemn him and his crew to an eternity on Marica-3?

# Sample of Fortune's Hero

Quinn Conlan was bleeding to death.

Slowly, steadily, one drop at a time. One big-ass drop. He could feel the mechanism at his wrist working, opening and closing the artery to let the blood ebb and flow. At this rate, he calculated, it would take him about an hour to bleed out.

Down on the floor, a few of the drops turned into a trickle, and he watched as it made its slow way to the big drain in the middle of the room. And down it went, soon to be followed by others. Many others.

He put his head back and closed his eyes.

It wasn't a bad way to go. It wouldn't be quick, but it was mostly painless. A slight burn in his wrist every time the mechanism opened to let another few minutes of his life hit the floor. But compared to the other things that had been done to him in this room, it was nothing. The med tech had made sure of that. They weren't trying to hurt him. Not this time. By now, they must have realized that pain wouldn't make him talk. Been there, done that. Kept his mouth shut. So they'd decided to let him sit here instead, perfectly still, perfectly conscious, perfectly unable to move, as he watched his life drain away, drop by drop by drop. An hour from now, when his limbs were weak and darkness started to descend over his eyes, they'd expect him to call for help. That he'd start babbling, and tell them what they wanted to know.

Fat chance.

They'd brought him within a hairsbreadth of death before and revived him each time. Always their choice, never his. And this time would be no different. He wouldn't call for help, and they'd wait until it was almost too late to save him—almost, but not quite—and then they'd bring him back. Again.

Damn Rhenians. Never satisfied.

He'd never thought there'd come a day when he'd welcome death. Always figured he'd fight to the bitter end. Beat death, or die trying. But when it came down to it, it hadn't taken long. Just a few months in the prison camp on Marica-3, and weekly sessions with the camp's medical team—the best in the galaxy, both when it came to bringing a prisoner to death's door and to making sure he didn't walk through it—and here he was, ready and willing to die.

Hell, scratch ready and willing. Try eager. He'd die now, this hour, this very minute, if he could cheat them out of being able to revive him again. If he could will himself stone dead right now, he'd do it.

A sound at the door brought his head up. The exsanguination must be happening more quickly than he thought, because it was already a little harder to move, and a little more difficult to make his eyes focus.

"Good afternoon, Captain Conlan."

A woman. They'd sent him a fucking woman.

And not just any woman. He recognized this one. She'd been at his earlier sessions, standing in the background taking notes while the doctor injected him with something that made him feel like he was being boiled alive. She'd watched out of those cool, green eyes as he writhed in pain and screamed until his voice was gone. Writing on her goddamn clipboard. With not a flicker of emotion on that perfect alabaster face.

Ice bitch.

Quinn wet his lips and cajoled his rusty vocal chords into cooperating. "Come to watch the big finish, sweetheart?"

Her eyes flicked to his, the clear green of glacier ice under brows the shape of bird wings. "It doesn't have to end this way."

Her voice was lovely, as cool and clear as those eyes. And as devoid of emotion. If he'd had the strength, Quinn would have laughed. As it was, all he could manage was a smile, and a weak one at that. "Sure it does."

She monitored the progress of the blood flow from his wrist between glances at his face. "You could tell them what they want to know."

Them. Like she wasn't part of the same unholy alliance.

Quinn shook his head. "Sorry, sweetheart. Not gonna happen."

One of those exquisite eyebrows raised. "You would rather take the whereabouts of the rebels to the grave with you? I'm not so sure they would return the favor. Are you certain you aren't sacrificing yourself for nothing?"

It would be almost laughable if he wasn't twenty minutes from bleeding to death.

"I think we both know that ain't gonna happen, sweetheart. Ten minutes from now, just when I think it might be too late to revive me, someone's gonna run in here and pump me full of synthetic blood. And next week I'll be back in this room with high and mighty Doctor Sterling and his toys again. We both know it, so let's just stop pretending."

He looked away. Down to the floor in time to see another sizable trickle of blood head down the drain.

For a second, nothing happened. Then he heard her heels click on the floor, a quick, angry rhythm. At the door, she turned for a final salvo. "You think you're so smart, Captain Conlan. But we're smarter. You'll see."

The door opened and shut with a slam.

"Yeah, yeah," Quinn said, and closed his eyes again to wait for the darkness. With any luck, he'd be unconscious for a day or two before he woke up and realized he was back in hell. Again.

* * *

He was the luckiest son of a bitch in the universe. He had everything he'd ever wanted. The Good Fortune, the ship of his dreams; a solid little freighter with power boosters that let her outrun any but the most powerful of Rhenish destroyers. The best crew any captain could ask for. Excitement and adventure on every run. More money than he'd dared dream of when he first set himself up in the galactic smuggling trade six years ago.

And Josie. The most beautiful woman in the world, here in his bed.

She was smiling up at him, dark eyes shining and those perfect lips swollen from his kisses. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, he was buried to the hilt inside her, trying with everything that was in him to hold on, to take her with him when he went over the edge, and she knew it, knew he was teetering on the brink and reveling in the power she had over him...and then he exploded, and felt her body arch up to meet his as her laughter trickled over his heated skin. And darkness descended, and he floated in utter bliss, safe in the cocoon of Josie's arms.

* * *

Quinn rose up to the surface of consciousness and forced his gluey eyes open. Blinking at the too-bright light, he realized he must have overslept. His mouth felt awful, full of cotton—had he been on a bender last night? That'd explain the pounding in his temples, and the way he could hardly lift his head from the pillow...

And then reality slammed back into focus as he recognized the five-by-seven cell he was in and remembered that he'd died a few days ago—again—and had been revived, again.

He'd been right. They'd waited until he was almost sure it was too late, and then they'd rushed into the room and unhooked the damned contraption on his wrist and filled him up with synthetic blood. They'd left him alone after that, to recover. Here in this little room that had been his home since he was taken off the Fortune. This cell and the big laboratory with the tile floor had been his whole world since he arrived on this barren, inhospitable moon on the outer edge of the galaxy.

That was a while ago now. Months, maybe a year.

Or maybe not. It felt like an eternity, but maybe it had only been a few weeks.

There was just no way to know. No window to the outside, and the lights were always on. No way of telling day from night. They'd work on him until there was no life left, trying to break him, and then they'd let him recover until they could do it again. Sometimes he was pretty sure he'd slept for what must have been days.

Quinn shifted on the thin cot, wincing as the still tender scars on his back stretched uncomfortably. Those were from a couple sessions ago. There'd been the fingernails, and the burns, and the beatings and whippings, and then the injections. Plus some other things he'd rather not think about along the way.

The last thing they'd tried was the exsanguination. Now they'd probably go back to the thumbscrews again. And he didn't feel too awful at the moment, so that probably meant it would be soon. They always seemed to know when he'd recovered enough that they could come back for more.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard the vacuum seal on the outer door hiss. It was almost as if he'd conjured it. For an insane moment he wondered whether they could read his thoughts, whether they'd implanted him with some sort of device during one of the many times he'd been temporarily dead—and then he realized the unlikelihood of such a thing. The Rhenians weren't that sophisticated; just look at the torture methods they favored. It was good old-fashioned thuggery, with whips and chains and brass knuckles. And besides, if they could read his mind, they'd stop trying to force the information out of him.

But just in case, maybe he'd better not think about anything important.

Carefully sitting up on the edge of the cot, he waited for the hiss of the inner door to follow the outer. After a moment it did, and two people stepped through. The door slid back in place, leaving them all sealed inside the small chamber.

Quinn dismissed the first of his visitors—one of the prison guards—after the first brief glance, and felt his eyes narrow and bile rise in his throat at the sight of the second.

It was her. Doctor Sterling's assistant. The ice bitch His Highness kept around to take notes and to check how Quinn was holding up under the torture. To determine how much life was left in him and how much further they could go before he ran out.

This was the first time he'd had the opportunity for a good look at her when he wasn't in the process of dying or his brain wasn't fogged by pain, and he took his time, looking her up and down.

By Rhenish standards she was beautiful. By Quinn's standards...

Hell, maybe she was beautiful there, too. But not in the way Josie had been beautiful, with her flashing dark eyes and flowing black hair and red lips. Josie had been heat and passion personified. Love and laughter and life. The perfect temptation.

Until she sent him and his entire crew up the river.

But this woman... if she'd ever come apart in a man's arms, it hadn't been in recent history.

Not that she was old. Younger than Quinn, at a guess. Maybe thirty, maybe just above or below.

What she was, was stone. A statue carved in marble, pale and perfect and devoid of life. Her face was stunning, but there was no warmth in it. Her hair would probably be lovely if left to its own devices, but it was scraped back from her face with ruthless determination and braided into a tight flaxen rope coiled at her nape in the Rhenish style. She was tall, at least half a foot taller than the tiny Josie, close to Quinn's own height, and she had none of Josie's warm, inviting curves. Her posture was ramrod straight, as if she had an imploder lance stuffed up her ass, and the tilt of her head was arrogant, balanced on top of that long, slender neck. Long legs, a little too skinny. Narrow hips. Not much of a waist. Not much in the way of breasts, either. Nothing for a man to enjoy. The shapeless gray sack she had on under the white lab coat did nothing for her complexion or her figure, and on her feet were the ugliest pair of lace-up shoes Quinn had ever laid eyes on.

Oh, yeah, she was Rhenian, all right. Tight-assed, militant, and frigid.

And perhaps not entirely made of stone, because he could swear he saw a blush stain those high cheekbones. His low opinion must have shown in his eyes.

He grinned wolfishly. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Been a while since you had a man?"

Something shifted in her eyes, but that was all he had time to see before the guard's fist connected with his chin and knocked him back against the wall. The impact of his head against the concrete had him seeing stars.

The guard let out a string of invective in guttural Rhenish. Between the knock on the head and a disinclination to languages, Quinn understood less than half.

He understood enough, though. He'd insulted the lady, and the guard took offense.

Interesting.

Observing through half-closed eyes, as he pretended to be more hurt than he was, he watched as the bitch stepped in front of the guard and kept him from hitting Quinn again. He supposed he should be grateful; another blow might have knocked him unconscious. Lucky him—it seemed Doctor Sterling wanted him awake and aware.

The prison guards all looked the same. They were all young, some not even out of their teens yet. The Rhenians liked to start military indoctrination early. All were tall and fair, in gray uniforms with tall, spit-polished boots and Old Earth military headgear that shaded their faces. There was no need for protective armor; no one here could hurt them. The prison population on Marica-3 was all like Quinn: weak, defeated, and wishing for death.

The guards were armed, though. The Rhenians hadn't gotten where they were by taking foolish chances. And besides, it made the wet-behind-the-ears recruits feel powerful. Gave them the proper crush-all-obstacles attitude, starting with the boots, with their lead-enforced tips. They carried laser pistols in holsters at their waists and good old-fashioned batons. Quinn had gotten a rap over the knuckles with a baton a few times, and it hurt.

At the moment, he was more interested in the pistol. The med tech was standing in front of the guard reasoning with him. The guard looked down at her, into that stunningly beautiful face, and Quinn could read the young man's thoughts as easily as if they had been spelled out in a thought bubble above his head. It took one to know one, after all; he'd been in the same situation plenty through the years.

Not that the ice bitch inspired those kinds of thoughts in Quinn. No, thanks. He'd rather kiss a Marican water snake. Just as pleasant, and a faster death afterwards.

The cell was small. If he moved fast, he'd have surprise on his side. And the med tech had put herself with her back to him, providing something of a shield. Considerate of her.

He lurched to his feet. And gritted his teeth as his various injuries screamed in protest. His back spasmed, his lungs rebelled, his stomach twisted, and one of his legs threatened to give out. So much for moving fast. He was lucky he could keep on his feet at all.

Shit.

Eschewing stealth for speed, he took a few stumbling steps forward, fetching up against the lovely med tech's back and knocking her forward into the guard. The guard's arms came up automatically to catch her. At least the big bastard was predictable.

As they danced, Quinn slid an arm around her from the other side, twisting his body, ignoring the complaints from his back and shoulder—just another centimeter... and yes!—he felt the handle of the guard's laser pistol under his hand. It was the work of a few seconds to pull the pistol out, twist it sideways, and burn a hole through the guard's ribs directly into his heart.

Buy Fortune's Hero

_N ew York Times_ and _USA Today_ bestselling author Jenna Bennett (Jennie Bentley) writes the Do It Yourself home renovation mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime and the Cutthroat Business mysteries for her own gratification. She also writes a variety of other books – some mysteries, some not – for a change of pace. For more information, please visit her website or any of her social media pages.

* * *

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# Dark Horse by Michelle Diener

# About Dark Horse

Sometimes it's not what you know, it's who you know . . . Dark Horse is the winner of a 2015 SFR Galaxy Award.

_S ome secrets carry the weight of the world._

* * *

Rose McKenzie may be far from Earth with no way back, but she's made a powerful ally--a fellow prisoner with whom she's formed a strong bond. Sazo's an artificial intelligence. He's saved her from captivity and torture, but he's also put her in the middle of a conflict, leaving Rose with her loyalties divided.

Captain Dav Jallan doesn't know why he and his crew have stumbled across an almost legendary Class 5 battleship, but he's not going to complain. The only problem is, all its crew are dead, all except for one strange, new alien being.

She calls herself Rose. She seems small and harmless, but less and less about her story is adding up, and Dav has a bad feeling his crew, and maybe even the four planets, are in jeopardy. The Class 5's owners, the Tecran, look set to start a war to get it back and Dav suspects Rose isn't the only alien being who survived what happened on the Class 5. And whatever else is out there is playing its own games.

* * *

In this race for the truth, he's going to have to go against his leaders and trust the dark horse.

# Sample of Dark Horse

### Chapter One

Rose slipped her ticket out of hell over her head and tucked it beneath her shirt, where it lay against her skin, throbbing like a heartbeat.

The sensation was so unnerving, she curled her fingers around it and lifted it back out, eyeing the clear crystal oblong uncertainly.

"I'll try to keep all the passageways clear for you and I've disabled the lenses, but just in case someone disobeys orders, it would be better if they didn't see me." Sazo spoke too loudly through the tiny earpiece she wore, and she winced.

She reluctantly tucked the crystal, that was somehow also Sazo, back under her shirt, tugging the cord it hung from so it was below her neckline. After three months of being the only thing she'd had to wear, washed over and over again, the shirt was threadbare, and barely concealed Sazo anyway, but it was better than nothing.

She took the two steps to the door of the tiny control room tucked away to one side on the Tecran ship and it slid silently open. She'd only been inside for ten minutes at most to steal Sazo, or break him out, depending on your view of things, and the corridor was as empty now as it had been when Sazo led her here.

She looked back, but the door had closed, completely concealing the control room, so it looked like an uninterrupted passageway again.

"You're still in control, even though I've unplugged you?" She spoke very quietly, because even though Sazo had opened doors, and diverted traffic all the way from her prison cell to this room earlier, there was no point taking foolish chances like talking too loudly when it was unnecessary.

"I would not have initiated this plan if I wasn't absolutely certain that it would work." Sazo sounded a little . . . stressed.

"You okay?"

"There has been a delay loading the animals at the launch bay and the Grih have come through their light jump three minutes sooner than I calculated." He went quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, Rose."

"What? What is it?" Freezing hands of panic gripped her heart and she stumbled to a halt. If he was going to tell her they had to abort, that she had to go back to the cell . . .

"The lion has been killed."

She leant against the wall, her legs weak. "That is not good." She rubbed her face. "Why?"

"I'll tell you as you walk. We can't delay, with the Grih already here. They might fire on this ship at any time when they realize it's disabled."

She started walking again, and just like earlier, the passages Sazo sent her down were eerily empty. "I thought the Grih were peaceful."

"They don't take force as a first option, but my changing this ship's trajectory in the last light jump and setting us in the middle of Grih territory was effectively a declaration of war. They might initially hesitate to fire, given the power of this ship compared to theirs, but when they realize every single system except for lights, air, and the launch bay mechanisms have been disabled, they may strike."

"And the lion?" There was something bothering her about the way he'd apologized.

"It was delaying the loading——frightening the loading crew. They're already frightened because I diverted the ship to this location and they don't know what's going on. I only agreed to let the animals come with us because you insisted. Animals are unpredictable. It's hard to get the timing precise."

"You instructed one of the loaders to kill the lion." She didn't ask, it was a statement of fact. She knew there had been something way off with that apology. She knew, deep down, there was something way off about Sazo, but he was literally her only escape route, and of all the beings she had encountered since her abduction, the only one who had worked to free her.

"There is a chance the wildlife on the moon we're going to, Harmon, would not have been suitable to sustain him. He would eventually have died of starvation."

She didn't respond. She was too angry.

What he said may be true, and if so, he could have told her that sooner, but it wouldn't have stopped her asking for all the animals to go with them on a second shuttle. They had had as miserable a time as she in this hellhole.

And Sazo thought the Grih would come to pick her up on the moon they were escaping to. They would see the shuttles Sazo had arranged for them leaving the launch bay for Harmon, and after they had dealt with the crippled Tecran ship, they would surely be interested in who had escaped. And, she was sure, be interested in a lion.

They could have made a plan for him.

A door slid open and she walked into the launch bay. Ahead of her, two of the loading staff walked out the far door without turning around, one nursing a jagged wound on his arm.

She pressed against the wall and made no move until the doors closed behind them and she was alone in the massive hangar. Beside her, she heard the hum and double beep of the locks engaging. Sazo had sealed the doors. No one on the ship could stop her getting on the shuttle now.

The lion lay, dead and crumpled, in the massive cage that had housed him since he was taken. It stood next to one of the two explorer shuttles she and Sazo were stealing and she walked up to it and grasped hold of the bars. Hot tears welled in her eyes as she looked down on him. He was a golden, vibrant anachronism in this cold, metallic place.

A wild thing, broken.

That could have been her. Nearly had been, more than once.

The lion had been one of the things that had kept her going, kept her sane.

"I am sorry, Rose. I really am. But the Grih have gone to full alert, shields and guns. Please get in the shuttle, or this could be for nothing."

The shuttle that had been loaded with all the animals was closed and ready. Rose paused for a moment, looking at the massive gel wall that enclosed the launch bay but which allowed ships in and out. It was a pale blue, and seemed to shimmer.

"Rose!"

She shook herself, and walked up the ramp into the much smaller craft Sazo had arranged for her, and before she had even reached the cabin, he started closing the door and revving the engines.

She lurched into one of only two chairs in the small cockpit and struggled with the safety harness. She should have been excited, or at least relieved to finally have escaped the Tecran, but as the engines began their muffled scream and the ship lifted into hover mode, she could only think of tawny fur and golden eyes.

Closed forever.

The Tecran Class 5 battleship hung sullenly between the _Barrist_ and one of the fertile moons of the gas giant Virmana. It hulked like a prickly black ball, and Dav Jallan shifted uncomfortably in the _Barrist's_ captain's chair.

He could feel the tension humming off his ten-strong command staff, although they were trying to hang on to calm. Their emergence from a light jump deep inside their own territory to find themselves within sight of a Tecran ship was not unlike opening the door expecting to see a friend, and tripping over a weapon-wielding thug instead.

Dav decided they'd been frozen in shock long enough, himself included.

"Is there anyone on board?" That was almost the only logical reason why the Tecran hadn't fired on them yet. Their ship was three times the size of the _Barrist_ , and Dav knew from the information he received from Battle Center that a rare Class 5 like the one in front of him had even more than that in terms of fire power.

"There are at least five hundred heartbeats, sir." Kila said. She tapped a screen and immediately the view of the battleship on the main screen in front of them lit up with hundreds of lights on clearly defined levels.

Most of them were blue but . . .

"Are those orange lights?" Dav leant forward to get a better look. They were all concentrated in the same area, set apart from the blue, which was the only reason they were noticeable at all.

"Those are bio-signatures our system can't identify." Kila said, and frowned. "This is the first time I've ever come across a genuine orange before."

"Should I initiate evacuation?" Dav's aide, Farso Lothric, hovered at his shoulder, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"Where would we go?" Dav didn't need to look at his systems screen to know they couldn't possibly have recovered enough from the light jump they'd just made to go anywhere. Let alone evade a Tecran Class 5 battleship.

And while the moon behind the Tecran ship shone like a blue and green jewel against the red and cream of Virmana's patterned atmosphere, and was assuredly habitable, the problem still remained that they would have to go around the Tecran ship to get to it.

"We have to do something," Lothric said.

Dav didn't disagree. However, he'd known the moment they'd come out of the jump and straight on course toward the Tecran ship that there was only one course of action. They had sent out a comm the moment they'd made visual contact, and at least two battle class ships would be light jumping to the _Barrist_ ' _s_ aid, but right now, all they could do was defend. "Shields are at full. Guns are all primed. If they attack——"

At that moment, all the lights on the Tecran ship went out.

The blue and orange heartbeats remained, but it was clear the power was down.

"The oranges, sir." Kila stood up in her excitement, and forgot to use the pointer, using her finger instead.

The orange heartbeats detached from the ship, and Dav zoomed in with the lens, saw two explorer-class craft flying away from their mother ship.

"Is one empty?" Borji, his systems engineer, asked, peering forward.

"No. There's one orange heartbeat on that one. Six on the other."

Dav watched their trajectory for a minute longer, but there was nowhere else to go but Virmana's moon——not in those craft——and he turned his attention back to the real threat.

"Could they be on backup power and we can't see it?" He waited for Kila to fiddle with her instrumentation.

She shook her head. "I can't see any power at all."

"Which means . . ." Lothric gripped the back of Dav's chair.

"Which means we have a ship full of dying Tecran in front of us." Dav stood. Walked toward the screen. He would give a lot to know what was going on in that Tecran ship right now.

It was like someone had just handed them a Class 5 warship on a plate, with no effort on their part to claim it besides a bit of messy clean-up.

He didn't trust that at all.

No one in the universe was that kind.

He tapped his communicator. "Commander Appal, ready Squads A to F, and prepare to board the Tecran vessel immediately. Full biohazard kit."

He paused.

"I'm coming with you."

### Chapter Two

"You can move around now." This time, Sazo's voice was much softer in her ear.

Rose depressed the button over her chest, and the safety harness released, letting her up to stand in the tiny cabin.

She walked to the porthole window and looked back, saw the outside of her prison for the first time.

The Tecran ship was a black ball with long protrusions. Like a naval contact mine from the Second World War. She shuddered to see it. "You did what I asked you? You deleted the maps?"

"I've wiped the Tecran system of all navigation points to Earth, and was able to send a system virus to all their other vessels, to search out the information and destroy it wherever else it exists in the Tecran fleet. They won't even know it's missing, because I also deleted all reports relating to their find. With the crew that took you gone, only those in the high command office who read the reports will have any idea of what they found, and they won't be able to find the information again."

"What do you mean, with the crew gone?" Rose stared out at the Tecran ship a moment longer. "The Grih won't return the Tecran to their people as prisoners of war? What will they do with them?" She tried to tamp down on a wish for something truly unpleasant.

Sazo paused. "I am not familiar with the Grih's handling of prisoners of war. When we make contact with them and I can infiltrate their system, I can keep watch on the Tecran they're holding. But either way, it won't matter. The Tecran will have to start again from scratch."

It was the most she could hope for. "But you still have the information, right?" She didn't know whether she wanted him to delete it from his memory or not. Having it there meant there was a tiny chance of going home.

"I do. But I've put it somewhere extremely hard to find. If the Tecran ever get me again, it will not be accessible to them."

She would have to believe that. She decided not to ask him to delete the maps permanently yet. If they were about to be taken back into the Tecran fold, then maybe. But not now.

"Does this craft have a hot shower?" She was half-joking, half-hoping beyond hope as she took her first really good look around the craft. Her skin hadn't felt clean since she'd been taken. Sazo had engineered a respite for her from half-way through her second month of captivity onward, but she'd only had a basin to wash in. She wanted water pouring down on her.

"It does," Sazo said, and she closed her eyes, suddenly close to tears.

"I had the loading crew pack some things that may be useful to you." He sounded almost shy as he opened an automatic door at the back of the cabin. It slid completely back on itself, and Rose crouched down and pulled out two bags.

They were the size of small backpacks and after a little fiddling, she worked out she had to push a button at the top and the center seam released, opening up to reveal piles of colorful fabric and bottles of what might be toiletries.

She lifted up a piece of fabric, to find it was a large long-sleeved t-shirt made of a smooth fabric with the texture of silk. It looked much to big, but she could deal with that.

"It's hyr fabric," Sazon said into her ear. "Made from the silk of the hyr spider. It reacts to heat. Hyr spiders only eat prey with a certain body temperature. If the correct prey gets stuck on their web, the silk contracts around it. You put it on and your body heat causes it to shrink to fit you. You can shape it any way you like."

"I don't recognize it from anything I saw the Tecran wear. This is wonderful." She brushed her fingers over it, and felt it react to the heat of her fingertips. The Tecran had worn uniforms of a dark purple which had looked similar to thick cotton——practical and hardy. This was soft and beautiful. "Thank you."

"Hyr fabric is the most expensive fabric in this part of the galaxy. I saw in the inventory that we were carrying these two packs for the daughter of the Tecran military leader, and had them pulled from the cargo hold and packed in this shuttle."

That meant he had thought of her and what she would need well in advance. He had been honest in his promise that he would help her, and on top of that, beyond the bargain, he had thought of her comfort.

He had also killed the lion.

She needed to remember there were a lot of shades of gray in Sazo.

And if she ever slowed down his plan, there was a chance, just like the lion, she'd become so much collateral damage.

She lifted the crystal off her neck and looked at it. "That was really sweet of you. Thank you again. Now, I'm going to find the shower, and when all the hot water is gone, I'm going to work out how to dress myself in hyr fabric." She started to pull the earpiece from her ear.

"Wait." Sazo's call was a squawk.

She put the earpiece back in. "Yes?"

"It would take one hour and thirty minutes for the hot water to be gone. We only have an hour before you need to be back in the harness for landing."

"Can you send me a signal when forty minutes is up? Like a beep through the comm system?" She had nearly said intercom, but even though she spoke in English, a language she had taught Sazo since he'd first introduced himself, she stopped herself in time and used the Grih term. She could speak relatively understandable Tecran by now, and almost fluent Grih. They had decided it was better for her to concentrate on Grih, rather than Tecran, given the plan was to escape the Tecran, and never meet up with them again.

Ever.

She pulled the earpiece out and put it and the crystal——she couldn't think of that faceted, slim piece of technology as Sazo——on top of the storage unit. It was the first time she'd been free of Sazo completely, apart from when she slept, for at least a month and a half. Not since he'd had someone include the earpiece on the breakfast tray a guard brought her each morning.

She grabbed both of the packs he'd got her and slung them over her shoulder as she made for the rear cabin door, eager to find out what lay beyond it.

A kitchen galley to the left, a small bathroom to the right, it turned out. This really was a two-person explorer. But she wasn't complaining.

She stepped into the bathroom, and then, even though Sazo could hardly get up and walk in, given he was an artificial intelligence lodged in a crystal key, she closed the door. Of course, he would also, by now, be residing in the systems of this craft.

She looked around, but couldn't see a camera, and what would she do about it, if she could?

She pulled off her clothes, folding them neatly to one side, because she had learned to take nothing for granted, and she may need them again, and then stepped into the shower.

The Tecran were a little taller than humans and a lot bulkier, so the shower stall was roomy for her. She worked out how to switch it on, and stepped back for a couple of seconds to let it come up to temperature, only to find it came out hot straight away.

As soon as the spray hit her face, she closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and at last, private and under cover of the sound of falling water, let herself cry.

### Chapter Three

Dav could hear his own breathing inside the biohazard suit and nothing else, except for the occasional curse from one of his boarding team over his comm as they came across more and more dead Tecran littering the passageways and cabins.

They seemed at first glance to be merely asleep, their thick-set bodies lying up against walls, as if they had sat down to rest and just slid sideways, the feathery protrusions on their heads limp.

He lifted the concentrated beam of his laslight to illuminate the dead littering the area just outside the launch bay, pressed up against the doors as they'd tried to get in.

The interior doors had been locked when Dav and his team had arrived at the bay in three gun carriers, and they'd had to hook the wiring up to the power system on one of their own ships to get them open.

Dav could only assume the power failure had left the doors in lock mode, with no way for the Tecran crew to make it to the fleet of smaller explorer and fighter craft in the hangar. If they had been able to, a lot more would be alive. All they would have needed to do was start the engines and close the doors, and the on board systems would have provided them with the air they needed to breathe.

There were a few alive, though. Mostly officers with personal breathing apparatus, and one patient who was on a ventilator in the sick bay. Lucky for him, the ventilator's backup power came from a powerful battery built into the machine itself, not the backup system on the ship, or he'd be dead too. According to one of B Team, he was nearly there, anyway, his chest barely lifting up and down.

Dav turned his laslight back to the one thing on this ship that had no business being here and studied it a little more. It was a dead animal of some kind in a cage, nothing he'd ever seen before. He would bet quite a large chunk of his pay that if it were breathing, it would show up orange on Kila's little screen.

This one life form, of all the life on this ship, had not died of a lack of breathable air. It had been killed by lethal injection, the syringe still in its shoulder, as if the person who'd plunged it in was too scared to pull it out. Looking at the incisors and the claws on the animal, Dav didn't blame them.

He played his light over it a little longer, and then tapped his comm. "Final casualties, Commander?"

"Four hundred and eighty-three, sir." Commander Appal had to clear her throat. "Kila's confirmed from her side. We haven't missed anyone."

They had the captain alive, along with most of his senior officers. And none of the hassle of a large-scale prisoner population. All their would-be prisoners were dead.

Dav wasn't sure what he thought of that.

If the Tecran ship hadn't been disabled, he knew they would have shot the _Barrist_ out the sky and killed every single person on board. If he'd had the fire-power available himself, he would have done the same to them.

But this seemed like a waste of life. A tragedy.

And the burning question was, what were the Tecran doing in Grih territory to begin with?

He tapped in to the _Barrist's_ comm system. "We're secure, Borji. Bring your team over and find out what the hell happened to this ship."

The place on the Grih planet Dav came from, Calianthra, had a saying: beware of unexpected gifts.

He was wary, all right. Very, very wary.

She was clean, and she was cried out. Wrung out like a limp rag. Only thirty minutes had past of her hour, because she was worried about working out how to use the hyr fabric, and she didn't want to ask Sazo's advice.

Her hair hung below shoulder-length, clean but in need of a good brush and a hair tie, smelling of the gel Sazo had provided. A sort of cinnamon and vanilla spicy mix that was amazingly good.

She sorted through the garments, and realized she was humming a tune while she did it. She'd always enjoyed singing, but since she'd been taken, she'd hummed and sang more than she ever had in her life. There was something so pithy about song lyrics. They got right to the heart of things in a few words.

She didn't doubt she was sane because of them.

She lifted out an item that must surely be underwear, although so big she could have got both legs in one leg-hole. She pulled them on, and then bunched them close to her skin. The fabric contracted, and as she pulled and arranged, it obeyed completely, shrinking, molding itself to her, until she had exactly the kind of underwear she preferred.

Flushed with success, as well as the humid air of the shower room, she pulled out a sleeveless tank top which she guessed was a bra equivalent and went to work again. When she worked out she could have any level of lift and separate she wanted, she played for a good five minutes, grinning as she made her breasts do the impossible, giving herself cleavage that would be the envy of any playboy bunny. The beep Sazo said he'd send at forty minutes sounded, and she toned it down a little, although not totally. She was tired of being grubby and drab.

The pants and long sleeve t-shirt were easy, and the fabric was stretchy enough for her to move freely.

She ran into trouble with the shoes.

The only ones in the pack looked like massive ballet slippers. The Tecran had big feet, and she wondered how the hyr fabric in the shoes would work. She'd prefer trainers, something she could run in.

Sazo said the Grih were peaceful and had strict rules guiding their encounters with alien life. They would never subject her to what the Tecran had. But call her a cynic. She'd like the option of running, if she could.

Of course, she'd been without shoes for three months, so anything was an improvement.

She slipped her foot into one, and then the other, and they started to contract. Ballet slippers, it was, then. They were comfortable, at least. And the soles were probably thick enough to run over rough ground.

She closed up the packs again, still wishing for a brush and a hair tie, but the Tecran had feathery stuff on their heads and if they brushed it, there was no evidence of that in the things Sazo had gotten for her. She combed her fingers through her hair and then braided it in a French braid.

"A hair tie, a hair tie, my kingdom for a hair tie," she sang under her breath.

"A hair tie?" Sazo's voice came through the speaker by the door.

"A stretchy, thin band to wrap around the end of my hair, to keep it in place. I'd be happy to see a comb or a brush, too." She kept her voice neutral, but she didn't like that he'd been listening to her. Although she knew she could be misunderstanding. He was in the craft's systems, and if she spoke, he would hear it, whether he was actively listening to her or minding his own business completely.

And what else did he have to do at the moment?

Boredom was a huge problem for Sazo. Idle hands do the devil's work had never been more applicable. Although, this time, the devil had been totally in her corner.

They'd needed each other——Sazo's access to the ship's systems and her mobility and opposable thumbs——and their plan had worked.

She walked back into the small cockpit, still hanging on to the end of her braid, peered out the porthole one last time at the Tecran ship disappearing into the distance, and gave them the middle finger.

DARK HORSE was a book that called to me, no matter what other project I was involved in. Eventually, I gave in and focused all my attention on it, thoroughly enjoying creating the world of the Class 5 series. I had realized as I neared the end of DARK HORSE that I couldn't leave the story where I saw it finishing, that there were other Class 5s whose stories needed telling, and so DARK DEEDS, the second book, was born. Right now, I'm writing the third, and final book in the series, DARK MINDS. The Class 5 series has been my first foray into the Science Fiction Romance genre, but it is definitely not going to be my last. I already have another series outline in my head, and look forward to starting it as soon as I'm finished DARK MINDS. I hope readers enjoy reading the Class 5 series as much as I've enjoyed working on it.

Buy Dark Horse

Michelle Diener is the author of the bestselling science fiction romances DARK HORSE and DARK DEEDS. Having worked in publishing and IT, she's now very happy crafting new worlds and interesting characters and wondering which part of the world she can travel to next.

* * *

Michelle was born in London, grew up in South Africa, and currently lives in Australia with her husband and two children.

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# Cosmic Fire by SE Gilchrist

# About Cosmic Fire

_C osmic Fire_ is the second story in the Mars Academy Series.

Ensign Dana Lawson of Sector Seven fire team on the star ship, Columbus, has one goal: her own command. On an exploratory mission to Alpha Centauri A, she has the opportunity to earn her stripes, but instead faces a challenge that threatens to send her plans up in smoke.

Rick Morgan, a guy with heartbreaker imprinted in his DNA, the warmest smile and the bluest eyes she's ever seen, ignites a fire inside her heart. He is trouble, on every level...and he's brought his dangerous past with him.

Now a saboteur has Dana and Morgan in his sights. Together, they must learn his identity before he strikes again and kills them both...or destroys the ship and everyone on board.

# Sample of Cosmic Fire

### Chapter One

### Dana

Exasperated, I slapped fifty-two cred-bots into the guard's open palm. Turning smartly on my heel, I planted my hands on my hips, staying well clear of the energy shield imprisoning the partner I'd been assigned the moment I'd boarded the exploratory star ship, the _Columbus_.

"I swear this is the last time I'll bail you out."

Looking totally unrepentant, Rick Morgan grinned. "What can I say, Dana? The party got a little out of hand."

I decided not to argue about Morgan's continued use of my first name. Being the same rank, our team usually referred to each other by surname or a call-sign. Or at least they used to; now a lot of them used first names. The further we travelled from Earth, the more we became like family.

Personally, I preferred calling my partner _Morgan_ ; it kept him at a distance.

"Somehow I find that hard to believe. And I bet you had nothing to do with spray-painting pictures of flowers all over the outside walls of the captain's sitting quarters."

Captain Sanchez was _the Man,_ the one who ruled the ship. I'd never met him but I'd heard from others he was considered a good leader. Hard but fair. Rumours were he'd been laid low with some kind of virus for the past week and hadn't made it out of the infirmary for the last four days.

It made me shudder to think how he'd react when he saw those flowers. Anyone less touchy-feely was hard to imagine. The Man was military as far back as his great grandfather.

Jaw clenched so hard my bones ached, I stepped out of the way as the guard crossed the room to the controls and shut down the shield.

"Hey, I thought he might need a little cheering up." Morgan shrugged.

Barely suppressing his grin, the guard said, "He's all yours."

I cringed inwardly at the thought. "Come on then, Morgan. Let's get out of here." Without waiting to see if he followed, I stalked through the open door and along the passageway leading to the chutes. I punched the _level4G_ button on the panel and waited.

The lift took its sweet time.

As did my partner.

When he finally slouched to a stop beside me, I swung around and stabbed my right forefinger into his chest. "You're unreliable. I'm requesting another partner the first chance I get. I need someone who'll watch my back."

He brushed my hand aside. A tiny smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "That's a bit harsh, _dontcha think_?"

The chute doors opened and I was hit with a wall of noise. It was packed - change of shift time.

Shoulders stiff, I squeezed inside to find myself sandwiched between a six foot tall woman of African-American descent who I recognised worked in engineering and Morgan who plastered himself up against my back. The idiot performed a little suggestive doggy movement.

_He's so annoying._ I slapped his arm.

"Friend of yours?" The engineer, with the name _Anne Johnson_ on the tag perched on the shelf of her large boobs, quirked an eye brow and grinned. Her gaze did a quick sweep of—yes, I hated to admit it—Morgan's impressively wide shoulders and lean physique. I guess his curly, light-brown hair was kinda attractive. Added to that, he had baby-blue eyes with awesomely long, dark lashes which he flashed in the direction of every female over eighteen.

"No. Partner," I admitted sourly.

"Lucky you."

"If you like morons."

Behind me, Morgan quipped, "She's always grumpy first thing in the morning."

The other woman laughed. A great booming sound that cut through the din and had heads turning to stare inquisitively at me. I cringed. I'd never liked being the centre of attention. My favourite place was the background. I'd always fancied myself as being a bit of a dark horse. The run-in. The one everyone least expected to win the race. It was better that way. People left you alone. And that was just the way I liked it.

Face flaming, I snapped, "I'd be a sight happier if I hadn't handed over the last of my pay to get you out of the slammer."

"Ooooh, tough night?" Sympathy was like warm honey in the engineer's voice. Over the top of my head, the other woman eyed Morgan with gleaming eyes. As if he was a tasty side of beef.

Lapping it up, Morgan whimpered pathetically. "You have no idea. I could tell you all about it later. How about we connect after my shift?"

"Here's my code." A shooting star couldn't move any faster. The engineer snapped up her cuffs on her left hand to reveal the tiny, square part metal/part organic plate that held her id. Everyone on board wore this plate where our identification and other pertinent personal information had been implanted. And in case, we had our arms chopped off for any reason, the same intel was implanted in a microchip behind our right ears.

Johnson raised her hand in the air. I flinched sideways as my partner's wrist made contact with the engineer's, two inches from my ears. A faint zap of energy as the pair exchanged numbers and the deal was done.

Wishing I was anywhere but here, I stood between the two possible future lovers and attempted to shrink smaller inside my clothes.

Trust Morgan to use the situation to his advantage. The guy must have tom-cat in his DNA. Eight months since we'd set off on our mission and during that time I'd seen at least three different girls hanging off his arms in the past fortnight alone. Oh yes, I definitely needed a new partner.

Finally, the doors whooshed open to _level4G_.

I elbowed my way onto the passageway. With one swift tug on my jacket to ease out any possible wrinkles that may have dared mar my starched olive-green uniform, I marched off in the direction of the break room.

The rest of the brigade team for sector seven, a group of thirteen men and women of varying ages, were already assembled when I strode through the double doors. Murmuring greetings to my fellow fire-fighters, I wound through the occupied benches bolted to the floor and found an empty seat near the back.

I sat, angled my feet shod in heavy, anti-gravity boots, neatly together side-by-side. Flicking a minute speck of fluff off the black insignia, branded with a red _M_ for Mars Academy, that encircled my upper left sleeve of my jacket I fixed my gaze on our commander manning the front desk.

It was unusual for him to address a standard sector meeting. Normally our Sector Officer, Beth Shawoski, was the one who laid out our programme for the week. But I'd heard a rumour in the mess only last night that our ratings were down. Worse, our sector team flagged behind the others in the areas of tactical response time and team coherency. I surmised the commander was here to lay down the rules and tell us to pick up our game.

Morgan followed and plonked down. He shimmied closer until our thighs touched. He stretched out his legs, hogging all the space.

Compressing my lips, I wriggled to the left.

He wriggled to the left.

Now I was sitting on the edge of the bench. If I moved any further I'd fall and land on the floor on my backside. Without lifting my gaze from our boss, I elbowed Morgan sharply in the ribs, smiling when he gasped.

_Loudly._

Heads turned, some firies grinning, some scowling, hissing at us to be quiet.

Taking the not-so-subtle hint, Morgan finally slid across the bench leaving a decent space between us.

"Are you ready down the back there?" Commander Jones beetled his grey-flecked brows as he glared towards me.

"Yes, sir." Positive my face was now cherry red, I sat up even straighter.

Morgan was such a shit-stirrer. Thirty-five weeks I'd known him – _but who's counting?—_ and already he'd gotten me into more hot water than I'd ever been in my entire life. I didn't need his kind of trouble.

I knew what I wanted—captain bars on my shoulders and my own command. And no hot-shot firie was going to get in my way.

### Morgan

Leaning back in my chair, I shoved my hands into my pants pockets not bothering to suppress my grin. Dana would have to be the prickliest and sexiest chick I'd ever met. She acted all stiff and proper, but I'd bet my last cred-bot she was a real fire-cracker in the sack.

As usual, she'd come to my rescue, bailing me out yet again from the slammer. Yeah, she was a real sweetheart, kind and generous under that businesslike manner she wore like a uniform.

It bothered me more than I was comfortable with admitting, how horny I felt whenever I was around her. It also worried me how much I enjoyed teasing her and watching her rise to the bait. She was my work partner. That was all. And that was all it ever was going to be; mixing sex on the job never ended well.

But a guy could still look and look I often did when she was about. With her shiny brown hair that I longed to run my fingers through, and those sherry-coloured eyes, and those pouting pink lips, she was worth looking at. But, hell yeah, I wanted to do more than look. I wanted to peel off that uniform and take my time over the gorgeous body I knew hid beneath.

_Damn it._ I had it bad.

I shifted on the chair.

Up front Jonesy fixed me with his laser-like stare and I quickly wiped the smile from my face. When he resumed his lecturing, my mind wandered. But my thoughts didn't go far.

Like they always did, they zoomed onto the one issue that had dominated my life for so long I'd forgotten what living without it would be like. Dad. Mum. My kid sister. The desperation of surviving on Mars with limited funds and massive medical bills.

There'd been no response to the message I'd sent the _Company_ before we'd departed. Now we were way beyond any communications reach with either the Earth Republic or Mars. I had no way of knowing what was going on back home. No way of knowing whether there'd been any ramifications from my message. Or whether it had all been a wasted effort on my part.

My gut churned as clammy sweat broke out along my spine.

I hated the thought of my return from this mission.

Of what I'd find.

Or rather, what I wouldn't find.

Maybe it would be better if I never returned home.

If none of us ever went back.

### Dana

The simulated emergency Commander Jones had planned for sector seven today meant I'd be spending some time outside the ship anchored only by a cable while I inspected the hull for heat leakages.

Floating about in space was not my idea of fun. Even if I did have a jetpack strapped to my back. But orders were orders.

Plus, I knew how important it was for a firie to be trained for any situation. Who knew what dangerous situations we'd face, cruising out here in the Black. The _Columbus_ had entered the Alpha Centauri A system, a week ago and only just passed the outermost planet, if you could call it that—a small, dark, frozen sphere of ice composed of nitrogen and methane. Our mission was to explore the suitability of the planet our scientists believed lay in the goldilocks zone for colonisation by the Earth Republic. Alpha Centauri A __ was relatively close to us being close to four and a half light years away from Earth and had been discovered a little over one hundred years ago. Unfortunately, it had taken this long for our engineers and scientists to develop a power source, and design and build a suitable ship capable of making the journey.

And returning the crew safely.

It had also taken us that long to discover the ability of interstellar space travel without everyone arriving at their destination a shrivelled corpse.

The _Columbus_ was merely one of five similar ships that had been launched over the past decade. We'd come a long way since man first landed on the moon. I, for one, was more than proud to be part of this team; an assignment I'd been working towards ever since I'd entered the Mars space programme at the age of seven. Then, at fifteen, I'd been offered a place in the prestigious Mars Academy.

To the best of my knowledge, we would be the first team to undergo this trial simulation. Given the reaming Commander Jones had subjected us to at the meeting, I knew we had to surpass all expectations and show we could do the job. Should our team's ratings slip further down, we'd be pulled off active duty to undergo basic training again and reduced to the back-up work. In my mind, that was completely unacceptable.

Inside the decompression chamber, I suited up. Next I checked my equipment against the readings flickering over the screen on my personal control panels inset into my space suit on both my arms from elbow to wrist. My stomach lurched in a sickening fashion and I looked sideways at my partner.

"We're going to do this right. Get the job done quickly and with no fooling about," I ordered, pleased my voice came out calm and even.

My eight years of training at the Mars Academy against Morgan's seven gave me superiority over him even though we were the same rank. Not that he'd taken much notice.

So far.

Today was different. Being outside the ship was dangerous. If we were hit with solar winds or even an unexpected solar flare, we wouldn't last long. The sun in this system, was a yellow dwarf, just as powerful as our Sun and capable of packing a nasty punch.

I needed to know he'd act responsibly and not put either of us in danger.

I needed to know we'd ace the programme.

And as usual, Morgan totally failed to give me what I wanted.

"Fooling about is my speciality, darlin'," he drawled. "I'm not one for quick and fast. I like to take my time."

Male guffaws and female snickers sounded over the intercom.

I so wanted to punch him in the head.

"You wouldn't look half decent if you didn't pull your hair back so tightly," Morgan yakked on.

Didn't this guy know when to stop?

I ground out, "Focus. On. The. Job."

"Sure thing, sugar cheeks."

"What did you call me?"

"Sugar cheeks."

The noise coming through the intercom all but deafened me as the rest of my team howled with laughter. I swung around, rammed my arm up under his throat, and slammed him back against the metal wall. Anger fuelled my strength. Even suited up as he was, I knew his neck would be constricted by the pressure. Not bad for someone who stood five feet two inches in her socks and weighed one hundred and ten pounds when wet.

The laughter stopped.

"Consider yourself lucky, I don't have a knife in my hand," I whispered holding his blue gaze with my furious glare.

"I loooove a woman with moves. What are you doing later? Oh wait! I'm busy later. It'll have to be tomorrow."

I couldn't believe my eyes when he batted his lashes at me, a little smirk smearing his face. Feeling frustrated beyond words, I released my grip and returned to checking my equipment. My hands shook. I could kill him. Maybe I should sever his cable. Watch him drift away and be lost in the immense blackness that waited to claim our souls.

I hated him for reducing me to an uncontrolled state. I hated him for making me entertain such nasty thoughts, so totally unlike me. Not that I'd ever follow through. I'd experienced firsthand the anguish of losing someone close. I'd never inflict that kind of pain on anyone.

Besides, I doubted I'd ever be able to kill anything. I didn't even eat meat!

But still, Morgan was such an arse. No one else had ever gotten under my skin the way he did. My problem was, I didn't know how to deal with him. That, and the way I felt when he pushed my buttons.

My fingers fumbled with the catch on my suit. My anxiety rose to fever pitch. My blood pulsed inside my brain, flooding my logic.

We were going to die out there. I knew it. He couldn't be trusted and I would pay the price.

_I think I'm going to puke._

"What's going on in there?" barked Commander Jones over the intercom.

The realisation he watched our response to the simulated emergency sent my panic quivering into ignition point. I couldn't let the team down. We had to surpass this exercise. My knees trembled. My heartbeats hammered inside my head. I definitely was going to puke.

"Performing final checks, sir," responded Morgan coolly.

For some reason the sound of his calm voice quietened my anxiety attack. Steeled my spine. Mars above, if he could do this, then so could I.

He touched me on the arm, gently turning me to face him. In silence, we checked each other's readings, going through the steps we'd been taught. Next he walked around me, scrutinising for any rents in my suit, ensuring I was tucked in nice and tight. When he nodded, I repeated the same procedure on him.

Not wanting to trust my voice in case I revealed my lingering nervousness, I gave the thumbs up in the direction of the cameras. Rorke and Curly who were manning the systems in the room beyond the chamber should now realise we were good to go.

Curly's voice came through, rattling off what would happen next and reiterating the tasks we needed to undertake outside the ship. I thought Morgan would make some inane comment, but mercifully this time he kept his mouth shut. Had he sensed my fear? I hoped not. How humiliating would that be!

The red light above the hatch door changed to orange. Decompression began. The countdown from ten started while Morgan and I attached safety cables to our suits then positioned ourselves close to the door.

I concentrated on my breathing, nice and steady, to slow my racing heart. My confidence returned as I mentally reviewed my training. In the final two seconds I decided maybe Morgan wasn't such a tool.

_Green._

The hatch slid open.

We switched on our suit-lamps, activated our jet packs and flew out the door.

### Chapter Two

### Dana

It was beautiful out here, if deadly. The inky darkness was lit with the sparkle of far off stars and other galaxies. Colourful swirls of space dust glittered to my left like an overflowing jewellery box. The constellations were unfamiliar, nothing like those sprinkled overhead my home planet of Mars.

From this angle, the _Columbus_ appeared enormous; with jagged, elongated lines intercepted by huge, bulging cylindrical pods and clusters of spherical fuel tanks to the stern The entire structure was dominated by three massive and slow moving rings; one at each end of the ship and the other roughly in the middle. Not only did the rings allow the _Columbus_ to traverse vast distances using space-time distortion technology, but also generated force fields to ward off the dangers of explosive space dust as well as producing magnetic fields for the ship's propulsion system. A bristling array of antenna gave the impression of a misshapen porcupine and at intermediate intervals long, narrow metal arms heavily festooned with huge radiator panels stuck out from the side of the ship. Two large landing bays were cut into the side of the immense central pod for our small fleet of space fighters and shuttles. I knew the other side of the ship was a mirror image of this one. Another landing bay was located on each side of the very last pod, and not far from this bay was the small hatch where we'd launched for our simulation.

The silence was complete. If it wasn't for my heartbeats I could have been inside a tomb.

Ensuring I remained within four metres of the _Columbus's_ hull, I powered along the side, heading for the co-ordinates we'd been given.

The constantly changing data scrolling down both sides of my helmet kept me informed of Morgan's and my position in relation to the ship. That and the warning lights situated at regular intervals over the ship. Whatever happened, it was imperative we didn't stray beyond our designated _fly_ zone.

If we did?

It was doubtful we'd be able to catch up with her given the max speed our jetpacks were capable of. For the exercise, the _Columbus_ ' electric-propulsion drive had been downgraded to _drift_. Still under complete control by the bridge, but sufficiently slow enough that we weren't spun out into space.

Even so, the simulation wouldn't be without its dangers.

"Okay back there?" I asked over our comms.

"All good. I'm enjoying the view."

Heat flared over my cheeks. I had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't referring to the stars. But his light-hearted teasing did override my last lingering pricks of anxiety for which I was grateful. Now I could concentrate fully on the mission.

"Keep the comms clear of chit-chat," warned our commander.

"Yes, sir," I said, performing a double-check of the cable feeding out behind me.

The data changed pattern, bringing up the details of our simulated emergency.

My training took over and I swung into action. I flew closer to the hull where I reached out and gripped a hold-bar. A series of similar hold-bars were bolted to the ship here to form a ladder that stretched higher up the side towards where the rear thrusters were situated. I began the climb, taking care my movements were as fluid as possible to avoid smashing against the hull. Any contact carried the risk of a compromised space suit.

"See it yet?" Morgan called from behind me.

"Three more rungs and I'm on the top. Give me a sec." Reaching the last hold-bar, I hauled myself upwards until I stood on the roof where I activated my magnetic boots.

Morgan appeared beside me. In his hand he held a scanner. "I'm picking up a reading to our right, about three metres from the closest thrusters. Data says..." He paused then spoke again. "Heat seepage."

Relieved, I blew out a tiny puff of air. This simulation would be a piece of cake, seeing how I'd aced it at the academy.

"Let's get started then. I wouldn't want you to miss your hot date."

"Awe, that's sweet. I do believe you're secretly in love with me. Totally explains your jealousy."

"Really? Morgan, how about you stop blowing it out your butt and give me a hand here?" But my tone lacked bite. I frowned to disguise my grin.

"Already on it, sugar."

I stopped myself in time from commenting on his form of address. The last thing our commander wanted to hear over the comms was two team members bickering like teenagers.

"Let's get this job happening." I strode forward ensuring one foot remained on the hull at all times until I reached the simulated source of the problem, Morgan an arm's length beside me. The light from my suit-lamp spilled across the smooth metal of the hull. Beyond that lay mind-blanking darkness.

I shivered.

The programmed data spooled across my shield.

"Report, definitely heat leakage. Area is six centimetres by three centimetres wide." I squatted, the better to inspect the so-called damage. "Morgan, has your scanner picked up anything?"

Morgan trailed his scanner over the area. "Report, readings indicate thermal energy normal, one-oh-two hundred in temp, mix is coming up sixty-percent oxygen, ten carbon dioxide, and wait...this is odd. I've got a spike in plutonium 238 here."

We exchanged shadowed glances.

He performed another sweep over the hull then shrugged. Not an easy feat given the bulky all-encompassing suits we wore.

"Plutonium 238?" snapped Jones over the comms. "What tomfoolery are you two nits playing at?"

Leaning over, I perused the readout on the scanner Morgan obligingly faced towards me. "Sir, we've triple checked. Morgan's reading is correct."

"Tommy rot! No plutonium leakage was programmed. Continue with the exercise then get your worthless behinds inside the ship. Out."

"Crap," I muttered. "Any chance your scanner malfunctioned?"

"Possible, but its tagged with a _'check'_ date of yesterday." Clipping his scanner back onto his belt, he crouched and ran a gloved hand over the hull. "Dana, this feels hot to me, not cool like it should be if the hull's thermal shield is working correctly."

I imitated his action then sank back on my haunches and stared at him. "A real leakage? A malfunction with the tech controls?"

"No other indicators were flagged."

"Yeah, my sensors are coming up with zip, too." I blew out a noisy breath, thinking hard. "Right, let's get on with it. My take is we proceed as if the leakage is for real."

"My thoughts exactly." Morgan's tone was grim as he unclipped his blow torch. "We'll need to check where that possible plutonium leak is coming from when we get back on board."

"You read my mind." From the pouch strapped to my right thigh, I produced a container of moulded material which we would superheat than fuse to the hull smearing it over the surface like soft putty.

To my surprise, Morgan appeared to know his job and mercifully refrained from any of his usual sordid jokes. Instead he worked with a quick and efficient competency that impressed me.

Not that I had any intention of ever telling him.

Working in team like precision, we soon had the leakage, whether real or fake, sealed. Morgan performed a careful scan of our patch before giving the thumbs up.

Over the comms, came Curly's voice, "Keeping an eye on the time, guys? Twenty minutes to danger level, forty to critical."

I knew Curly referred to our exposure time to cosmic rays and other radiation that might be even now, burrowing its way through our suits, reducing our life span.

"We're done. We re-tracing our steps now." I straightened and took the first slow step forward. "Morgan, send that data from your scanner to my personal comms will you, please? I want to check it out later."

"Sure."

Taking care my cable didn't tangle with either the rungs or Morgan's safety-line, I climbed down the smooth slope of the hull. I released my grip, allowing my body to free-float away from the ship before I activated my jetpack. Craning my neck as far as possible, I stared upwards.

Morgan's boots appeared in the pool of light from my lamp as he began his descent.

My body jolted like someone had yanked on my cable.

What on Mars just happened?

Startled, I pulled my gaze away from Morgan's descending figure and twisted around, looking in all directions.

I saw nothing apart from my cable glinting from reflected light from the _Columbus's_ lamps and flowing out in a semi-circle and disappearing into...nothing.

_Crap._

My hand went to my belt.

Heart in mouth, I felt along the back of my waist, searching for the buckle that secured the cable to my belt.

Still there.

Enclosing my hand over the end of the cable, I dragged the line around in front of me.

_Mars above!_

I blinked.

I swallowed.

Didn't change the picture. I raised my eyes from the one metre long cable that was all that remained of my life line. My chest squeezed tight like all the air in my lungs had been vacuumed right out of me. My agitated heartbeats almost drowned out any logical thought.

Somehow my cable had severed.

Faulty workmanship?

Degradation?

Who could tell? And I didn't give a hoot why. Not now. All I was concerned about was getting back inside the ship before my air ran out or radiation fried my organs.

Or both.

_"Morgan!"_ Barely aware how I'd screeched out his name, I switched my jetpack off hover mode and began the flight back to the de-compression hatch, following the bread-crumbs of tiny green blinking lights along the side of the ship. Green meant towards the bow, red, the stern. "We've got to get back now."

"I'm on the last rung. What happened?"

"My cable's severed."

"Geez. How?"

"No idea. But I'm going to find out." I checked the spool of data and found my partner pushing away from the side of the hull and turning to follow me. "Let's not take any chances. Run a diagnostic on your line."

"I'm on it."

I increased my speed a notch as I approached the first rear radiator arm. My sensors read Morgan was close, his helmet mere centimetres from my boots. He must have boosted to max speed to catch up with me.

He said, "Readings show no problems."

"Okay, let's push it." I flew faster.

Morgan followed.

I began my dive that would take me beneath the metal arm with its bloom of panels rather like mushroom caps. Mid way between that arm and the front of the last pod and on the lowest level was our destination.

A warning flashed across my helmet shield. The tiny blinking red dot that was Morgan's bio sig showed he was falling behind.

" _Morgan!_ What are you playing at?"

"Keep going, Dana. My jetpack must have a blockage, 'cause I'm running out of juice. I'm going to stop and check the energy feeds."

"Don't take it off!"

"Have to. I can't check it otherwise."

I eased my speed back three notches to hover mode. I had seniority. Morgan's safety was my responsibility. No matter how annoying he could be I wanted him back on that ship straight away. "Rorke. We've got a little problem out here. Begin reeling in Morgan's cable. Slow and steady."

"Gotcha, Dana. Morgan, in ten, nine, eight..." Rorke said.

I performed a one-eighty turn, and clicked my power into overdrive.

"What the hell are you doing, Dana?" Morgan's voice vibrated with fury. "Make for the hatch."

"No way. Rorke's reeling you in. Brace for it." His cable, which had been floating out to the side, swung gently back towards the ship. As soon as enough slack had been winched inside, Morgan's line would be nice and tight. Then Rorke could pull him back inside the ship.

I reached Morgan and through his shield noticed the heavy scowl on his face. Fine, let him be pissed. I wasn't leaving him alone to deal with whatever was about to go down.

He'd shrugged off his jetpack and was examining the controls. And with every second that ticked by, he drifted further from the ship.

The good news? His cable was now taut and Morgan, after the initial jerk, had begun to move.

"See the problem?" Keeping pace, I itched to yank the pack from his grasp, grab Morgan by the hand, and hightail it back to the hatch.

"No. I've performed a manual re-start and quick diagnostic scan. Whatever it is, I can't get my power on-line again."

"Maybe this is part of the simulation."

"Doesn't feel like that to me."

"Whatever caused these problems, our priority is getting on board. I'll help you put the pack on."

"How we doing for time?" he asked as I helped him shrug the pack on and re-buckle the straps.

"Sweating about your hot date?" I evaded. "You're secure. Get a good hold of my belt while I negotiate us under the radiator arm."

I increased power, knowing the additional body weight would drain my energy source a lot quicker. We arrowed down then levelled out. Above us, yellow lights indicated we were beneath the panels.

"Fifteen, twenty," came Curly's strained voice, giving us the countdown.

Morgan looped his arm about my waist, hugging me close to his side. "Call it in."

He was right. We were running out of time.

"Rorke, pick up the pace," I ordered.

"Increasing winch speed, now. Hang on," said Rorke.

The cable tethering Morgan snapped tight.

We surged forward.

Suddenly we were flung backwards as Morgan's safety line fractured. It flicked up, snapping past us to crack against the metal arm above our heads.

Released from the momentum of the cable, my jetpack then propelled us forward before I had a chance to ease back on the power.

"What the..." Morgan swore. "Look out!"

The cable whiplashed towards us.

Morgan released me, shoved me sideways. _"Dana!"_

I went spinning through space, tumbling around and around. I caught glimpses of the _Columbus_ , blackness, stars. Terror had me in its icy grip, freezing my mind

Darkness spotted with blinding, white dots filled my vision. My lungs swelled to fill my chest to bursting point. My heartbeats were a crescendo of noise inside my head. Alarms shrieked in my helmet, lights flashing across my shield.

I was about to die.

Out here.

In space.

Alone.

Buy Cosmic Fire

S.E. Gilchrist can't remember a time when she didn't have a book in her hand. Now she dreams up stories where her favourite words are...'what if' and 'where'? SE lives in the Hunter Valley, Australia with her family, both four legged and two. Her stories are set in the exciting worlds of science fiction, ancient historical, apocalyptic and contemporary small towns. And she loves combining romance with action and adventure. Several of her books have finalled in writing contests. SE takes a keen interest in the environment and animal welfare and loves bushwalking. She is a proud member of the Romance Writers of Australia and co-runs the Hunter Romance Writers. SE is published with Escape Publishing and Momentum Books and is an indie author. Connect with SE Gilchrist: Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

# Keir by Pippa Jay

# About Keir

_A demon waiting to die..._

An outcast reviled for his discolored skin and rumors of black magic, Keirlan de Corizi sees no hope for redemption. Imprisoned beneath the palace that was once his home, the legendary 'Blue Demon of Adalucien' waits for death to finally free him of his curse. But salvation comes in an unexpected guise.

_A woman determined to save him._

Able to cross space and time with a wave of her hand, Tarquin Secker has spent eternity on a hopeless quest. Drawn by a compulsion she can't explain, she risks her apparent immortality to save Keir, and offers him sanctuary on her home-world, Lyagnius. But Quin has secrets of her own.

When Keir mistakenly unleashes the dormant alien powers within him and earns exile from Lyagnius, Quin chooses to stand by him. Can he master his newfound abilities in time to save Quin from the darkness that seeks to possess her?

Book One of the _Redemption_ series and part of the Travellers Universe. A science fiction romance novel previously released by Lyrical Press Inc. 7th May 2012, _Keir_ is a Readers Favorite Contest Awards Finalist 2012​, HOD RWA Aspen Gold finalist (3rd place), The Kindle Book Review's 2013 Best Indie Book Awards semi-finalist, and a 2012 SFR Galaxy Award Best May to December Romance winner. Book Two - _Keir's Fall_ \- released 7th December 2015, with a companion side story - _Reunion at Kasha-Asor_ \- releasing in May 2016.

# Sample of Keir

### Chapter One

In the darkness and the silence, Keir sat with teeth gritted from the pain racking his body. He tried to shut out the pulsing ache in his head where his hair lay matted with blood. Each shallow breath he dared to take burned his raw throat and sent fresh agony spearing into his chest from ribs bruised if not broken. The cell's damp had seeped through his rags and into his skin until he throbbed with the cold. He clenched his fists against the tremors shaking him and wished he could force them still. Wished for his suffering to end.

Wordlessly, he raged against the injustice of it all, as though the anger could keep his life burning, when all it really did was waste his energy, hastening the end. Sudden tears stung the cuts on his face. He would have roared his fury and terror if he had had the strength, but it would have been a futile protest.

The iron door of the cell clanged open, shattering the silence. A sickening jolt of fear punched into his stomach. What fresh punishment did they have in mind for him now?

"Get your hands off me!"

The voice, unmistakably female and strangely accented, carried clearly through the small space. Keir started. It was the first voice he had heard in uncounted nights, and not one he would have expected. The urge to move out of his shadowed niche for a clearer view of the door warred with his instinct to stay hidden. Loath to betray his presence, he willed himself to utter stillness and let his ears do what his eyes could not.

Loud scuffling indicated that the woman was not taking her imprisonment lightly. A dull thump was followed by a man's pained grunt.

"Damn witch!" a guard wheezed. "Get her in there."

Another thump then the door slammed closed, leaving nothing behind but a draft of smoky air from the torches in the outside corridor and the muted footfalls of the guards. Keir held his breath and listened. A moment later, faint rustlings and light footsteps crossing the flagstones told him the newcomer was on the move.

"Damn it! This wasn't the plan."

Keir puzzled over it. The woman sounded amused—and educated, despite the coarseness of the exclamation. But no lady of rank would have been thrown into his cell or used such language.

Sudden light scorched his vision, blinding after the long hours of darkness. He closed his eyes, but it continued to glow blood red through his eyelids. Pain spiked into his head. He raised an arm to shield himself from the glare, hoping he was still safe from sight in his niche. Had this woman been sent merely to add to his torment?

Once his eyes adjusted, he squinted into the light and saw a moving figure draped in heavy robes, styled—like his own—to be all-concealing, though they were not as threadbare or tattered. The dark, luxuriant material shrouded her in shades of green from head to toe without managing to disguise the slightness of her figure. Her hands explored the walls, and as she reached up, the hood fell back, revealing thick reddish hair unlike anything he had ever seen. It gleamed a fiery orange in the torchlight, like a halo of flame.

Curiosity overrode his pain-fogged senses, and he leaned forward. She turned toward him, her gaze skipping across his hiding place as she lifted her lamp higher—the strange light a wand of white fire clutched in one hand. She had a slim, elfin face with steel-gray eyes, a small nose wrinkled by a slight frown of irritation, and translucent skin dusted with freckles. Pretty in an unusual way, perhaps, but not beautiful. He doubted most men would give her a second look, though the color of her hair alone marked her as an oddity, and something to be noted. Was that the reason the Corizi had taken her prisoner? The rarity of her coloring could be reason enough in Adalucien. Otherwise, she seemed too frail a thing to justify sharing his punishment.

Then she moved toward him, and his old suspicions flooded back.

"Another step," he growled, "and I will kill you."

The girl stopped and squinted into the shadows. After a moment, she raised the light over her head. "That isn't very friendly." Her tone was calm and even, but the way she held herself told him she stood braced for any sudden movement, the lamp a weapon should she need one.

"I am not friendly. I am dangerous."

Even as he made the threat, he knew his chances of proving it were remote. In his fragile condition, she had a fair chance of fending him off, or possibly even killing him, and it seemed she knew it. Perhaps his voice had given away his pain and exhaustion. Perhaps she found his seated position less than intimidating, but in truth he could not bring himself to stand. Her posture relaxed a fraction, and she took another step forward, her light invading his niche.

Wincing, he turned his cloth-covered face away.

"You don't look very dangerous." She held her torch like a sword as she drew closer. "You look sick."

He kept his arm raised as if to ward her off, though he shook with the effort of it.

"My name's Tarquin Secker," she offered. "But my friends call me Quin. Who are you?"

The words escaped him before he could call them back. "I am Keir."

As if she had somehow mistaken their exchange of names for permission, she crouched before him and held up her free hand, palm outward.

Keir shied back as she reached out to him. Fear and anger lent him a temporary burst of energy, and he shoved her backward. "Do not touch me!"

The blow was not as heavy as he could have normally managed, but Quin landed on her back with enough force to knock the breath from her with a pained grunt, though she kept her grip on the light-stick. She rose and approached him a second time, slowly and with evident caution, but Keir's strength had failed him at last, and he sagged against the nearby wall.

"Are you wounded?" She knelt down and reached for him again. He shrank from her touch, and she stopped just shy of his arm. "I don't want to hurt you, Keir. I might be able to help."

He said nothing, could not bring himself to unbend, and she sat back on her haunches with a sigh. "All right, so you don't want my help. Why are you in here anyway?"

"What does that matter?"

Quin shrugged. "I'm curious, and there's not much else to do." She tilted her head. "Did you hurt someone? Kill someone, maybe?"

Despite how mildly she had phrased the question, the inference stung. "No. They caught me stealing food."

The tension left her face. "Just a thief, then."

The accusation, however true, stirred his resentment. "What choice is there when you are starving and have no money?"

"Fair enough, but you did just threaten to kill me, so I wondered..." Quin fiddled with the light-wand in her hand. When she spoke again, her tone seemed musing, as if she spoke more to herself. "And yet you didn't. So I'm guessing you either can't or wouldn't."

_Only a fool would make that assumption._ Keir held his tongue, tired of the discussion. What did it matter now?

"Look, I shouldn't be here. I just want to get out. Maybe that's an idea I can interest you in?"

For a long moment, Keir could think of nothing to say. Escape was inconceivable. Then he muttered, "There is no way out."

"I can always find a way." She gifted him with a grin so full of mischief that it sparked a flicker of life in him. How could someone be so certain of accomplishing the impossible? Was the woman mad?

She rose then moved farther down the passageway, which was lined on either side with archways similar to the one in which he hid. Again, a fragment of curiosity nudged him forward to watch as she assessed their surroundings. The chamber's original purpose was storage—though the door could be locked and barred, it had never been intended as a dungeon. A gutter ran down the center of the passage, trickling dirty water from elsewhere in the fortress through hidden pipes. At the far end, a drain ran beneath a heavy iron grid that sealed off a smaller archway. Behind the barrier, the gutter widened into a deeper channel for waste. Slow-moving, foul-smelling liquid filled the trench, with no indication of how deep it was or how far it extended. Quin's light-wand only cast shadows across it and revealed the unpleasant, oily green color.

She returned her torch to a thin cable around her neck. The wand threw broken light down the length of her dark green robes, casting random flickers of brightness across the dirt-encrusted floor as she rolled one sleeve of her robe up to the shoulder. She wrinkled her nose and braced herself as she knelt to plunge her hand into the channel.

The murky liquid reached the edge of the fabric as she groped around in the mire, seeking something below the surface, before she withdrew her arm with a sound of deep distaste. Muttering imprecations under her breath, she rose and shook off as much of the sludge as she could then rubbed herself dry with one corner of her robes.

"Is this a sewer, do you know?"

"Can you not tell?"

"I'm not an expert," Quin said. "For all I know, the water here always reeks like things have died in it." She pushed her light-wand through a gap in the grid, reaching as far as she could. It showed little more than greenish-tinged brickwork and deeper shadows beyond. "Do you know where it leads?"

"No."

"Hmm, helpful."

A twitch of anger spurred him into responding despite his lethargy. "A river runs under the city from west to east, and then out to sea. I think all the sewers feed into it."

"Ah." Quin seemed to consider his words. "Well, trekking through the bowels of the city isn't really my idea of fun, but then, neither is being a guest of the Corizi, so..."

She reached inside her belt and removed a small package, handling it as if it were made of something infinitely more fragile than glass.

"There's going to be a lot of noise and light in a minute," she called to Keir, "and there might be plenty of stone and metal flying around, so stay where you are."

With delicate fingers, she peeled the wrappings off her package, to reveal two flattened slivers of something like colored clay, then kneaded the sections together. Next, she tore the mixed clays into several small pieces. After pressing them into the joints between the metalwork and masonry with nervous haste, she scuttled back into the niche opposite Keir. A long and empty silence followed.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked.

"A door."

Keir snorted, coughing when the effort hurt his throat. "I do not think your key works."

Quin frowned at him then tilted her head as if she expected to hear a different opinion elsewhere. Nothing but the odd drip of water and the faint raggedness of Keir's breathing filled the damp silence of the dungeon.

With sudden decisiveness, Quin stepped out of the protection of the archway and returned to the grid. A sizzling noise greeted her, followed by a rapid shower of brilliant purple and red sparks that struck her full in the face. As she cried out and backed away with her hands clutched to her eyes, Keir struggled to his feet, heart thumping as the hissing became a roar. Instinct sent him leaping at Quin, bearing them both into the opposite archway as a huge explosion shattered the grid and surrounding stonework. A cascade of red-hot metal and stone shards tore at the walls and filled their niche with burning dust and debris, spattering them both. Ominous creaks and groans followed the blast, with fine grit and chunks of mortar tumbling from the ceiling as great cracks raced across the chamber.

Stunned and winded, Keir could do no more than roll aside with a groan as Quin scrambled out from under him. Agony raged through his body, more immediate and overwhelming than the sensation of the foundations ripping beneath him, more terrifying than the crash of falling stone. He had no will to move. He lay and waited for the fatal crush to come.

Instead, Quin tugged at him, urging him to his feet with insistent hands he had no strength to refuse. He submitted to her aid without protest as she wedged herself under one arm to support him. Sudden warmth, like a draft of strong spirits, flushed through him and stole his breath as she held him. It gave him strength, set him moving even as he wished to simply fall and die. Stumbling and swaying, they made their escape through the plummeting debris and destroyed archway into the waterlogged darkness beyond, as the chamber collapsed behind them.

Quin fought to keep Keir upright as a swelling tide of filthy water chased them deeper into the cavernous passageway. He hung on her, a dead weight dragging her down. Her wet robes clung to her ankles while the surging water tugged at her legs, threatening to trip her. Behind them, walls and ceilings were still collapsing, forcing the water higher and faster until the archway fell in on itself, sending a towering wave of putrid water sweeping over them. Quin struggled as their world became one of choking water and blackness. Hands knotted in Keir's clothing, she fought to stop him being swept away until her head broke the surface and she hauled him up with her. Swimming was out of the question. Swamped by the dark water, without light or knowledge for guidance, she spent her strength merely keeping them both afloat in the mire.

As swiftly as it had begun, the tidal wave subsided into sludgy waves. Soon, Quin could touch the bottom again, and she stood, legs shaking. She collapsed against the side wall, finding a ledge to rest on as she pulled Keir out of the water. He lay against her, limp as a thing dead, but she felt the shallow heaving of his chest before he fell forward, retching.

Quin forced down her urge to gag in sympathy. The stench was overwhelming, and her skin itched at the thought of what might be covering it. It was enough to make anyone want to throw up, though Keir should've been more used to the stink and filth of this civilization than she. After a few moments, he stopped, spitting the foul taste from his mouth. With a shake of his head, he tried to rise. Quin made to grab his robes and help him, but he swatted her hand away and levered himself up next to her. For a while, neither said a word as they sat gasping in the fetid atmosphere.

_Funny, just a few minutes ago he was threatening to kill me..._

Quin stared at her companion. However ironic, it seemed her first instinct about Keir had proven correct. Whatever else he might be, he had just saved her life.

_One heroic act doesn't make someone a hero._ She couldn't remember who had told her that, though she could remember her response. _Yeah, but one good deed deserves another._

"Thanks," Quin managed at last, her breath rasping in her throat.

Keir said nothing, but his cloth-covered head turned toward her as if acknowledging her gratitude. In silent agreement, they rose and followed the sluggish water as it flowed along the sewer.

Time lost all meaning as they trudged through the water, chilled and exhausted. Quin's head throbbed with pain as she stumbled onward, too numb with cold to care where the tunnel might lead other than out of the cell. Keir seemed oblivious, laboring through the sludge without a word, as if powered by clockwork.

_Ugh._ The stench had left the inside of her nose and mouth burning. _Give me some clean water, a puddle even..._

A pale light ahead etched out the contours of the sewer and reflected off the oily water. Quin hurried forward.

_Please be a way out._

A sharp turn in the passageway revealed the sewer's outlet as its contents cascaded from the end of the slime-coated tunnel and splashed into the mire below. Hazy sunlight and a blast of cold wind greeted her as open sea and sky filled her view. The surface beneath her feet became treacherous where time and effluent had worn it away, leaving it dangerously slick, and the water pushed at her relentlessly. Once she'd reassured herself it was only a short drop down, she took a gamble and jumped, jarring her legs on landing. Keir seemed hesitant to follow and lost his grip as he tried to lower himself.

_Water!_

Despite the cold and the strong sea winds blowing inland, Quin stripped down to her underwear. The reek made her want to gag. Hades knew what harm prolonged contact might cause, and since she was already wet, a little more made no difference. Choosing a stretch of sea well away from the waste outlet and the swamp it had created, she plunged in and washed herself down as thoroughly as possible, shuddering at the iciness of the water. The chill of it stole the remaining sensation from her extremities, rendering her numb and breathless, but she forced her head under the waves to soak the filth from her hair. Anything to be clean.

She surfaced in a cascade of droplets and a series of painful gasps as the cold burned deep into her chest. As she rose and turned back to the beach, Keir's motionless figure caught her eye. She stared at him as she twisted her hair into a rough knot to squeeze the water from it, mystified by his lack of movement. Were his injuries more serious than she'd imagined? Was he ill? Whatever the reason, perhaps he needed her help.

With the worst of the stench rinsed from her skin, she trudged back to her abandoned clothing and took her tunic from the pile. After a quick sluice in the sea, she wrung it out and tugged it over her head. It was scant improvement, but better than nothing.

_Oh, for a hot bath._ She almost groaned with longing.

She approached Keir, arms wrapped around herself as shivers racked her body. "We have to get you out of those wet clothes and cleaned off," she told him through chattering teeth. When he didn't respond, she stepped closer, intending to help, and he shoved her back.

"Do not touch me," he breathed, his voice fainter than ever.

Quin's fragile patience shattered, the rush of anger providing a faint flush of warmth. "Fine, do it yourself," she snapped, "but if you don't, the cold or the sewage may kill you, and I'll be leaving your corpse here!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Keir stood trembling like a beaten animal, head and shoulders bowed. If she felt weak after their ordeal, how much more had he suffered?

Despite her guilt, her harsh words seemed to have had the right effect. Without further protest, he stripped off the outer layers of his robes—no more than scraps of fabric tied over each other to hide the gaps in other places—before staggering into the sea and allowing the waves to wash him clean.

Quin glanced at the pile of abandoned tatters then back at Keir with a mind full of questions. Even without the threadbare cloak, he remained covered from top to toe, not the smallest patch of skin visible, shrouding himself from the world. He even wore a flap of cloth across his mouth, muffling his voice. She had no idea what he looked like, or how old he was, but nothing could disguise his skeletal condition.

_Poor devil._

She stooped to gather up her ruined robes and Keir's discarded clothing, rinsing them as best she could in the seawater before laying them out on the sand.

_Not much hope of them drying like that._

Quin sighed. The tunic, though still damp, at least covered her to the knees and kept off the worst of the chill. How Keir would fare without even the rags he'd shed to wash himself, she couldn't imagine. He'd crawled from the waves to kneel shivering in the shelter of the rock face that divided beach from land. Quin crouched some distance away, giving him the space his previous aggression demanded but fretting that his health would take a turn for the worse. She had no supplies with her, having hidden them in the city where she'd expected to be safe—a naïve assumption that had cost her dearly.

Bereft of even the most meager of useful things, she'd have to find her bearings before they made a move, especially if Keir were unfit to travel far. She had no intention of leaving him behind, despite his first threat to kill her. In the end, he had saved her life by pushing her out of the way when the prison ceiling collapsed, and she owed him that debt if nothing else.

Intent on salvaging what she could of their filthy clothing, she nonetheless sensed his gaze on her and glanced across. From somewhere within the shadow of his hood, unseen eyes were staring back, and it spiked her curiosity. Why had he chosen to conceal himself, to refuse help when he so desperately needed it?

With their outer garments laid out to dry, she rose. Her arms still clutched around her in an attempt to ward off the chilling winds, she made her slow way toward him. The movement of his head matched her progress across the beach, a sure sign of his suspicion. Far enough away not to be a threat, she knelt gingerly on the sand, grateful for the warming touch of sunlight on her back.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, his tone weary and bewildered, as if her companionship were beyond understanding.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"You are free of the city, of the Corizi. Why not leave?"

She chose to ignore the question, getting to her feet instead. "Are you ready to go?"

Keir sagged forward, one hand touching the sand for balance as his head sank lower. "Go where?" he said, his voice so faint Quin had to lean in to catch the words before the breeze swept them away.

"Away from here." Quin shuffled closer, her concern deepening.

Keir sank lower toward the sand, as though no longer able to keep himself upright.

"Keir, what's wrong?"

"What do you want of me?" he demanded. "Can I not even die in peace?"

"I don't want you to die," she said, the words catching in her throat. _No_ , _I've already seen too many die, too many wasted lives..._

Keir's head lifted, as if drawn by her wish. "There is not a soul in this world who would not wish me dead."

"Why? All you did was steal some food." Unease squirmed in her stomach. She could've been wrong, but somehow she doubted a murderer would've cared enough to save her life. "Or did you do something more to earn that kind of hatred?"

"Do? Nothing. I merely exist." Keir drew in a ragged breath that sounded almost like his last. "I am a curse to the city and a blight on the Corizi. The Blue Demon of Adalucien. Who would choose to save my life?"

_The Blue Demon!_ Shock blazed hot through her veins. _Oh, Hades, I never thought it would be human!_

"I might," she murmured, and then darted forward with her hands outstretched as Keir crumpled to the sand with a sigh. Pain lanced through her at the contact, and she gasped as his mind bled into hers.

_Outcast...hunted...beaten._

She gathered him to her. "And I will."

In a room atop the North Tower, the Matriarch sat in a high-backed, elaborately carved chair, keeping her back straight despite the bone-deep ache that had grown over the years to plague her. Her room gave her little distraction from the discomfort, being all too familiar. The walls of the apartment were iridescent white plaster and divided into sections, each panel decorated with pastel scenes of colorful landscapes and elegant figures—children at play and courtiers poised in formal dance. A large marble fireplace dominated one wall, unlit during daylight hours and surmounted by a wide family portrait framed in gold. Thick, burgundy drapes shrouded the huge four-poster bed and bordered the three arched windows that trickled sunlight into the room and revealed views across the city.

She sat motionless in her dark-blue robes, the complicated silver knot of Corizi on the front of her bodice embellished with silver beads and tiny white pearls. The high collar outlined a masculine jawline and an oval face that was wrinkled and haughty. Her long hands lay folded in her lap, and she took slow, deep breaths, listening to her city speak. Hearing something beyond the distant babble of voices, rumble of carts, and cries of street vendors. It could only mean trouble. As if to confirm her suspicion, the sound of irregular footsteps and a pounding at the door took her from her musing. Her eyes snapped open.

"Enter," she commanded.

A gray-haired soldier limped into the room and slammed the door. As he stood before her, sketching a perfunctory bow, she acknowledged him with the merest inclination of her head.

"Mother," he greeted her, his tone just shy of insolent.

"Well?" she snapped. "Is my palace about to fall?"

"They are making repairs as we speak."

"How long will this take?"

"Two days."

The Matriarch grunted, unimpressed. "And the cause?"

"An explosion in the lower levels, causing the sewer beneath the palace to collapse."

"Yes, I heard the explosion," she retorted. "I should imagine the whole city heard it." She leaned forward, watching intently for any sign that might betray him and put the lie to his words. "No such weapons or devices are stored beneath the North Tower, Rialto. What had you hidden down there? The truth, my son."

For the first time, something other than anger flickered across his face. "Prisoners," he admitted, not meeting her gaze.

The Matriarch clasped the arms of her chair until her nails dug into the wood, resisting the urge to push up from her seat. He was far past the age where she could slap him for his foolishness. "Since when are prisoners kept below the tower?" she demanded. "Why were they not in the holding area?"

"I did not want these two to be seen."

Suspicion coiled into a hard knot in her chest. _Oh, please, do not have done this, my son..._ "Why? Who were they?"

His silence allowed the distant commotion of the bustling city and the nearby rebuilding to divert her. The everyday sounds of civilization filled the empty air, marking the passing seconds in irregular beats. Rialto swallowed hard, his long face twisted as if in pain. "The Blue Demon."

The Matriarch made herself sit back, though anger left her shaking. "Why?"

"He has been allowed the freedom of our city too long!" the commander spat, his look slightly wild. "I would rid us of him, once and for all."

"But why? Have you not tormented him enough for the sin of his birth, without resorting to murder?"

He shook his head, waving aside her words with one hand as if they had no value. "The removal of such a creature is not murder. It is a cleansing."

"Rialto." The Matriarch forced herself to calm. "You cannot do this. The law does not permit execution without proven cause."

"His existence is cause enough."

"He has committed no crime!"

Rialto thrust his face to within inches of her own. She held herself steady and matched his gaze though her heart quivered. How far would his insanity goad him? "He has blighted my life, as well you know, Mother," he growled. "A curse on me and on Adalucien. I will have it ended!"

After a moment's pause, the Matriarch reached out to touch his cheek. "I believe there is a curse on you, my son," she said with a hint of sadness, gazing into a face she no longer recognized. "I think it has driven you mad."

He retreated from her, regaining a semblance of composure. "I will rid the city of its madness," he said coolly, assuming his soldier's stance once more. "I will be free of him."

The Matriarch shook her head. "There must be a fair trial. The law must be observed, Rialto."

"Then I shall bring him to you for trial, Mother. Him and his companion."

"Companion?"

"My men arrested a woman, one asking questions about the Demon. No doubt seeking some unholy alliance. Together, they caused the explosion."

"Then no doubt they lie buried beneath our feet, Rialto." The Matriarch sighed. A shame and a waste, but it would spare the poor souls further torment, at least. "You said the chamber was destroyed. Surely they have not survived?"

Sudden doubt etched his haggard face. "I shall have it searched." He saluted and turned, clearly distracted as he left.

The Matriarch watched him go, still clutching the chair arms as if the solidity of the wood could grant her a measure of reassurance.

"May the Gods have pity on them," she muttered. "And on you too, my son."

Why Pippa Jay wrote Keir:

I was bored. I was miserable. I felt I'd ceased to exist as an individual, other than being a mother and a wife. I had no idea who or what else I was or could be. I also had a short story about a man in a dungeon which came from a dream, and damn it but I wanted to know what happened next. Who was he? What was he? Why was he there? Why had I even dreamt him in the first place and woken with the image so vivid that I even knew his name? Keir: old Irish for little dark one. So I sat at my computer and got writing. After nearly 20 years without writing much of anything, the words poured out of me. My husband thought I'd gone insane. It felt crazy. It felt wonderful. It felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done, but I couldn't stop. Six weeks of manic typing and scribbling and research left me with a 40K first draft. I split that into two separate stories and worked at the first for two more months, finishing with a 110K time travel SciFi romance named after its central character. Two years later, _Keir_ became my publishing debut, only to come down eighteen months later when my publisher was sold. Over a year later on what would have been its third book birthday (and my third anniversary as a published author), Keir is back...and more books in the series are coming! _Keir_ comes from my life-long love of all things SciFi, but especially _Doctor Who_ , and a love of words, of books and films that filled my head with ideas of other worlds. At heart _Keir_ is story of hope and redemption, in part because it was the thing that saved my sanity and reminded me what I loved doing most in life - crafting stories.

Buy Keir

After spending twelve years working as an Analytical Chemist in a Metals and Minerals laboratory, Pippa Jay is now a stay-at-home mum who writes scifi and the supernatural. Somewhere along the way a touch of romance crept into her work and refused to leave. In between torturing her plethora of characters, she spends the odd free moment playing guitar very badly, punishing herself with freestyle street dance, and studying the Dark Side of the Force. Although happily settled in the historical town of Colchester in the UK with her husband of 23 years and three little monsters, she continues to roam the rest of the Universe in her head.

Pippa Jay is a dedicated member of the Science Fiction Romance Brigade and Broad Universe, blogging at Spacefreighters Lounge, Adventures in Scifi, and Romancing the Genres. Her works include YA and adult stories crossing a multitude of subgenres from scifi to the paranormal, often with romance, and she's one of eight authors included in a science fiction romance anthology—Tales from the SFR Brigade. She's also a double SFR Galaxy Award winner, been a finalist in the Heart of Denver RWA Aspen Gold Contest (3rd place), the EPIC eBook awards, and the GCC RWA Silken Sands Star Awards (2nd place).

You can stalk her at her website, or at her blog, but without doubt her favorite place to hang around and chat is on Twitter.

* * *

Connect with Pippa: Website | Twitter | Goodreads | Facebook | Pinterest | Google + | Wattpad

Pippa's Blogs: Adventures in Scifi | Spacefreighters Lounge | Romancing the Genres | SFR Brigade

# The Key by Pauline Baird Jones

# About The Key

_D ream Realm _Award Winner, 2007; Bronze IPPIE, Independent Publisher Book Awards

_A science fiction/action adventure romance novel_

Project Enterprise: an above-top-secret expedition to a distant galaxy. A mysterious place where lives - and hearts - are on the line.

Over 1600 hundred pages of sweeping adventure and compelling romance at a great price!

* * *

US Air Force Ace Sara Donovan thought she left her past behind when she joined Project Enterprise. Instead, she found herself thrust into an alien war. Project Enterprise has encountered a war-torn solar system, and both sides in the conflict think the Human expedition holds the key to ultimate victory. And they will stop at nothing to claim that key.

Swept up In an alien war, Sara must figure out who she is and what she knows in a place where even her heart can't be trusted.

# Sample of The Key

### Chapter One

Kiernan Fyn heard the high pitched whine of a ship and could tell it was in trouble, even without the dark smoke trail spewing from the tail. It was coming in too fast and too steep.

The pilot must be dead—before the thought finished, the ship started a series of brutally sharp turns. Okay, not dead. Yet.

Fyn strained with him through each turn, remembering how those turns felt, remembering trying not to crash.

And crashing anyway.

The pilot still hadn't slowed enough, and if he didn't turn soon, he'd go straight into the water. Kikk had a lot of water. Not a lot of ground. Only one place that was flat enough to attempt a landing.

The nose of the ship edged up a bit, but still not enough—it made sudden turn toward him. Okay, he'd seen the beach. Now he just had to make it. It dropped below the tree line, and after a bit, Fyn felt the impact ripple through the ground under his feet. The ship popped briefly into view again, then dropped out of sight. Another impact tremor. Longer this time, then...nothing.

No explosion. That was good. There'd be something to salvage.

He broke clear of the thick jungle and saw a deep hole in the sand. A break, then a furrow stretching down the beach so far he couldn't see the end. He hesitated, searching the blue-green sky for any pursuit, but it was empty of everything but the drifting remains of the ship's smoke trail. He jumped down on to the white sand and walked along the furrow. Soon he could see the downed ship, the front crunched up against a tree.

He approached cautiously, doing a complete circuit, looking for signs of a secondary explosion, but it just hissed a bit, then subsided into a resigned silence. It wasn't like any ship he'd seen, though he liked the look of it. It was long and sleek and dark. He traced an odd drawing on the side, under some unfamiliar symbols. A small square of dark sky and stars, and a larger section of dark and light stripes. The damage from contact with the tree wasn't too bad, but—he walked to the rear—weapons fire was. He bent close and sniffed. Dusan energy blast. There was another scorch mark on the side. That it had landed almost intact told him it was a tough, little ship—and a decent pilot.

He looked at the cockpit and saw a figure slumped over the controls. Fyn climbed up on the wing, studying the mechanism that kept the cover in place. After a few tries, it retracted with a loud, almost angry hiss. The pilot's gear was as dark as his ship, his face hidden by a sturdy looking head covering. He also wore a heavy, dark flight suit, with the same symbols from the ship imbedded in the material. Some flexible tubing stretched from his face mask to the ship. Probably his air supply. Fyn felt along the side of the mask and managed to unhook it. Now he could see a gap between the suit and the head gear. He worked his fingers in until he felt skin and was surprised to feel blood pumping beneath the still warm surface. He found the strap, undid it and lifted the head gear off. The pilot's head fell back against the seat.

_A woman?_

He'd never seen a woman fly a ship and he'd been all over the galaxy. Her hair was red, it was so many shades of red, it flashed in the sunlight, catching the rays in the strands and reflecting them back as fire. He touched it, almost afraid it would burn, but it was as soft as the skin it lay against. Matching lashes lay in neat half moons against pale cheeks.

She moaned and shifted, turning her head and he saw a nasty gash on the side of her face, near the hairline. Blood dripped sluggishly down the side of her face. A harness held her strapped in the seat. He explored the clasp for a few minutes and finally it popped apart. He felt along her arms and legs, then checked her ribs for damage, before easing her free of the craft and laying her in the sand. She was tall, but surprisingly light. Her suit made her look more bulky than she was.

Inside her ship, he found bandages in a box with a red cross on the outside. She stirred again, when he cleaned her wound, but she didn't wake. Once he'd contained the bleeding and applied a covering, he went back and searched the cockpit again. He found a bag of what he assumed were emergency supplies and a couple of weapons. He would have liked to study it all in more detail, but the light was fading. He needed to get them both under cover before dark.

He carried her and her stuff back to his cave, lowering her onto his bed, a pile of leaves and vines culled from the surrounding jungle. He pulled off her heavy gloves. Her hands were narrow with long, well formed fingers. Her dark suit seemed constrictive, but was secured with an odd metal track that pulled down to below her waist. Under her flight suit, she wore clothing that was unlike anything he'd ever seen. It was mottled in the shades of the earth and clouds. This clothing had many pockets, filled with more stuff. No wonder she looked so bulky. He emptied the pockets, studying each item, before adding it to a pile. She also had a knife in a holder and what looked like a holder for the smaller of the weapons he took out of the cockpit.

Two of her weapons were curious. They seemed to operate on a projectile penetration basis, unlike his energy based ones. He tucked all three behind a boulder. No reason to arm her until he found how she felt about him. He settled down next to her, watching and waiting for her eyes to open, wondering what color they'd be. It was hard not to feel like the gods had sent him a gift for not giving up, but he realized she might not see her arrival in quite the same light. He ran a finger down the smooth curve of her cheek, then across her soft, full lower lip, relieved to see the slow rise and fall of her chest.

As light faded, worry replaced curiosity. Perhaps she had some injury beyond his ability to detect.

He'd expected to die here, and to die alone. None of the Ojemba would look for him. Their numbers were not large enough to risk men in fruitless searches for lost comrades. Every time he went out on a mission, he knew he went out alone. Every day since he'd crashed on this miserable planet, he'd decide to get it over with. He'd stood by the ocean, telling himself to walk in and finish it. If he couldn't fight anymore, what good was he? And each day he turned and walked back into the jungle.

Hope was a hardy plant, to keep growing in a place like Kikk.

It was a brutal, hostile place. In the season since he'd been stranded here, only the occasional Dusan patrol had come by and none of them had landed, just buzzed the surface. They came for the same reason Kalian had sent him here.

They were looking for the lost Garradian outpost. He could have told them, if it was on Kikk, it wasn't on this continent. He'd had plenty of time to search for it.

Fyn didn't believe in the Garradians or the outpost. He did believe in killing Dusan. Since they'd over run his planet, it was all he believed in.

But now, as he watched the woman, he remembered other things he had believed in, things he used to feel. He'd cursed the gods, and not just because they'd stranded him here. Why had they sent him this gift now? And what cost would they demand in return?

There was always a cost.

Just before the light faded outside, he pulled a weapon and fired it at the rocks, adding an orange glow to the deepening dark. It provided warmth, but also helped keep the biters out.

Finally, when he wondered if she'd ever wake, she began to stir. He retreated to the other side of the cave and waited...

A vague throbbing in her right temple towed Sara back to a consciousness she didn't want to face, though she was a bit fuzzy on why...

She opened her eyes to zero dark thirty—a darkness somewhat lightened by an eerie orange glow.

Okay, starting to remember.

She not only wasn't in Kansas anymore, she wasn't in the cockpit of her bird. The rough hewn rock over head seemed to indicate she was in some kind of a cave, but how did she get from _Dauntless_ to cave?

She remembered...

...the dog fight.

...the double hit to her six.

...heading for the closest planet like a fast falling star.

...doing bat turns to slow her descent.

...seeing the long stretch of flat, white beach between tangled mass of jungle and sparkling ocean.

...endless feet-wet finally giving way to feet dry.

The narrow beach had skimmed past way too fast as she struggled to manage her uncontrolled descent. She remembered pulling her nose up long enough to clear a rugged tumble of rock spilling from high bluff into ocean, but on the other side ground was ground and no landing is a good one that ends against a tree.

Yeah, she remembered the tree.

But she didn't remember a cave.

Her head didn't seem to like all the remembering. She touched the complaining spot, finding something that felt like a bandage at the apex of the pain.

Okay, didn't remember that either.

She tried moving various body parts. Everything was a bit banged up, but still worked, which was good. And she knew it would get better. It always did. Her zoombag had been loosened and her gloves were gone. Add that to the list of things she couldn't remember, with an asterisk for slightly creepy. As the rest of her senses began to come back on line she inhaled a warm, metallic scent that seemed to be emanating from a circle of rocks, the source of the orange glow. It was mixed with a warm, earthy smell and some scents she couldn't begin to identify. There was a bit of a nip in the air, the edge taken off by the...fire? Was it a fire? It didn't flicker like a fire.

It was deeply quiet in the cave, quiet enough to hear her own breathing. And someone else's. An icy trickle made its way down her back. Who, or what, was sharing this cave with her? Sara sat up, stifling a groan when various bruises and bangs registered formal protests to her brain housing group. She'd planned to stand up next, but something stirred across from her. Who—or what—ever it was rose, throwing an ill-formed and very large shadow against the wall and roof of the cave. Maybe it was the bad light, but the outline was very Sasquatch-ish—shaggy and kind of ominous. The icy trickle turned to a rushing stream. It moved toward her, passing into the half light cast by the sort of fire. Not Sasquatch, though he could have been a second cousin. He had a head full of dreads, he bristled with armament, and he bulged with muscles wrapped in what appeared to be tight fitting leather. It was hard to find features—his face was darkened by dirt or camo, or both—but his eyes were deeply, sharply green.

And he was really, really tall. Sara had to tip her head way back to look up at him. He didn't speak, which upped the eerie factor a few more degrees. She somehow managed to get her legs under her and stand. She was a tall girl— _Tall Girl_ was actually her call sign—but the top of her head didn't reach his chin. He'd have to be around seven feet to top her by that much. He looked like a ragged cave man, but there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes. And he'd managed to get her clear of her bird. Not exactly cro-mag man skills.

She wanted to say something, but all she could think of was, _crap_.

Not particularly useful.

After a moment, she realized he was holding something out to her. A wooden-ish...thing. She took it, since he seemed to expect it.

"Thanks." Her voice sounded a bit loud, and a bit too bright, breaking the deep silence.

He blinked, just the once, the green of his eyes disappearing, then slowly reappearing. It was very Cheshire Cat—one channeling Tim Burton.

Not a good combo.

Sara looked down at the bowl. The assortment of dingy pieces in the curved center could have been fruit—fruit having a really bad day. She picked out a piece. It felt slimy and a bit gritty, but she'd eaten worse than that in survival training.

She hoped.

She sniffed it. The pungent aroma made her eyes water. She slid it between reluctant lips and chewed. Okay, this was worse than anything she'd eaten anywhere. Her eyes watered some more. When she swallowed, nasty lingered like thick oil in her mouth. She looked up, blinking and wincing, and said, her voice a thin croak, "It's... good."

Not her most convincing performance.

Was that a spark of humor in his eyes? It was gone so quickly, she couldn't be sure.

She felt the pocket of her jacket for a packet of water, but it seemed he'd picked her pockets.

"I had some water?" She patted her pocket again, not sure she needed to play charades. He seemed to understand her just fine.

He shifted slightly and she saw her stuff in a pile a few feet away. She edged past him, found the water and drank it down. It helped. A little.

Her head throbbed a reminder that her mouth wasn't the only miserable body part. She lightly touched the bandage.

"Did you do the patch job?"

Another slow blink.

_Okay._

Seems his mother hadn't taught him it wasn't polite to stare. If he thought he could intimidate her, well, he could, but she didn't have to show it. She lifted her chin and her lips thinned. Her eyes narrowed, too—a warning sign her temper was in danger of launching, her various principals could have told him, if they'd been there, which they weren't. Lucky them.

"I'm Captain Sara Donovan, United States Air Force." She thought about holding out her hand, but wasn't sure he'd take it. Wasn't sure she wanted him to take it. "And you are....?"

He blinked again. _Punk._ He understood her, all right. His face didn't change, but his eyes gave him away.

"...shy, I guess." She looked around. "I love what you've done with the place. It's very retro."

So retro, it probably didn't have a bathroom. Now that she'd thought about it, she needed one. _Great._ Nothing like baring your butt in the bushes on an alien planet. She tried to think of an alternative, but she hadn't seen any gas stations when she was coming in.

"I need to step out." She pointed in the direction she thought the entrance was, though it was hard to tell. There wasn't an exit sign. He didn't move or speak. Just blinked again. Maybe he didn't have bodily functions. She took a step toward the entrance and he shifted to block her. She felt color flood her face.

"I really need to visit the head...make a pit stop? Powder my nose? Empty the radiator? Visit the little girls' room?" She was running out of euphemisms. "Pee?" She gave him a get-a-clue look and after a long pause, saw his eyes widen. This time she was sure it was humor passing through the old eyeballs. He pointed in the other direction, a very pitch black direction. "Right."

She bent and snagged her flashlight and a bum wipe packet. She flipped the light around, so it pointed down, and turned it on, flinching from the light stabbing into wide open pupils. When she could see again, she looked back, avoiding looking directly at him. "Excuse me."

The surface of the floor was surprisingly smooth, but she kept the light trained on it, as she paced forward, wondering just where he expected her to—

A sort of crevasse opened to one side. Great, a pit toilet for her pit stop. She shone the light back the way she'd come, but he hadn't followed her.

_Smart man._

When she finished, she picked up her zoombag and headed back, noting he'd retreated to his spot on the other side of—Sara could see it now—a pile of glowing rocks. Yet another clue she wasn't in Kansas, in case she had any doubts left. Sara stopped by her stuff, dropped her zoombag and picked out her bottle of waterless soap, so she could clean her hands. She could feel him watching everything she did. Didn't take long to figure out her side arm, knife and P-90 were not among the jumble of her stuff.

_Very smart man_.

Back on earth, she wouldn't have had a P-90 or the ABU's—the pixilated camo uniform—under her zoombag, but she'd received a lot of specialized training and been given a lot more gear prior to the mission. Lucky for her, all he'd done was take it. Be a real bummer if he used it against her. And embarrassing.

Not that he needed her stuff to kick her ass.

Though she was careful not to turn the light on him, in the reflected glow she could see him a bit better. He was younger than she'd first thought, probably close to her own age. He was also very nicely built, thanks to the generosity of all the leather, and her impression that he was well armed was confirmed. He had side arms of some sort on both hips, a sword looking thing strapped to his back and at least three knife sheaths that she could see. Probably more she couldn't see. On his wrists she could see spikes sticking out in a deadly fan.

_Dang._ Must be a rough neighborhood.

What was he doing here?

And where was here?

She turned off the flashlight and dropped it back on the pile, then returned to her seat, a pile of dried stuff. She looked around. It seemed to be the only pile of stuff. His bed? That was kind of disturbing. On the other hand, he was keeping his distance. She knew she was no beauty queen. There were no cushy love lies in foster care. She was too tall, too thin, her hair was too red and her eyes were too big for her face. That said, as far as she could tell, she was the last woman on this earth and there he sat.

On his side of the cave.

Not that she wanted to get hit on by a caveman. She was just curious. How desperate did a guy have to get to hit on her?

She noticed the glowing dial of her watch. One thing he hadn't taken. If she didn't count her virginity. But she was moving on from that. The time meant nothing, since she hadn't been in position to look at her watch before the crash. The alarm had sounded at twelve-hundred. The dog fight, well it seemed long, but it probably wasn't. According to her watch it was either 0500 or 1700.

She rubbed her aching head.

"I don't suppose you'd tell me how long I was out?" She looked up suddenly and saw the green glow of his eyes. "I know you understand me. I can see it in your eyes."

The eyes abruptly turned away. Sara smiled to herself. She picked up the bowl of food, took another piece and examined it, then absently popped it in her mouth. Okay, that was worse than the last one. She spit it out in her hand and looked at him. He still wasn't looking, so she dumped it back in the wooden thing, and set it aside. She leaned back against the wall, shifting until she found a semi-comfortable position, then pulled her legs in until her knees were against her chest and rested her arms on them, watching her host.

After a time, she saw his gaze turn toward her again.

Oddly enough, the silence wasn't uncomfortable. Sara didn't have a problem with not talking. She'd spent a lot of her life not talking. The problem with this silence, it allowed worry to creep in. When her _Dauntless_ got hit, the _Doolittle_ had been engaged in a battle with an unknown, alien force. Had it survived? Did anyone see her get hit or where she went? How far from her ship had he taken her? Was any of it still intact? And all questions led back to, why had he taken her? What did he want? Who was he? Why was he here, apparently all alone?

When she was fourteen, she'd thought the worst thing that could happen to her was foster care. What a difference thirteen years—and another galaxy—made.

As always, when she was nervous, she began to tap out a song against the sides of her arms.

The song got slower...

Sara's chin sank down to rest on her arms, then her lashes drifted down....

Captain Sara Donovan. _Sara._ Fyn tried the name out in his head. He didn't know what a Captain was, but he liked Sara. It suited her.

No surprise she'd been uneasy when she came to, but she hid it quickly and hid it deep. Her chin had lifted slowly until he was looking down into cool, wary gray pools. She'd stood, her gaze never leaving his. He should have said something then, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Asleep she was lovely to examine, but awake—

The gods had been unexpectedly kind.

There was strength and character in her cleanly fashioned face. Her eyes were wide and tipped up at the edges, like a smile. Her chin was slightly pointed, but determined. Even her hair seemed more alive when she was awake. He had to stop himself from touching it, from touching her.

Now he smiled, thinking of the color running into her face when she'd tried to tell him she needed to relieve herself. And the look on her face when she'd eaten the food.

Without her outer gear, she was long and lean and graceful and he couldn't believe she'd been at the controls of that ship. Her voice was as cool as her eyes and the soft curve of her mouth reminded him that men could do things besides fight, even though she'd made no attempt to use the fact that she was female to try and manipulate him. Quite the contrary.

He remembered how women acted when they knew they were beautiful. She didn't act that way.

He stared toward her, wondering if she'd really fallen asleep and if she had, how could she, curled up like that? Had she pulled herself in like that because she was afraid of him? What had put the tiny frown between her brows? What had she heard when she swayed like that? There'd been a pattern to the way her fingers tapped against her arms. He'd been alone a long time and away from women for longer than that and he couldn't say he'd understood women then.

It wasn't long before first light that she stirred again, stretching her cramped muscles before rising. Her chin tilted defensively, she made another trip to the rear of the cave. He watched with interest as she washed her hands again, then took out another of the little packets and cleaned her face.

She dug around in the stuff, until she found small, white pellets, tossed them in her mouth and drank from a larger packet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked at him, biting her lower lip, an almost brooding expression in her gray eyes.

"Look," she said, breaking the long silence, "I appreciate the hospitality, and as charming as this place is—" Her gaze swept the area as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing— "I need to get back to my bird. My people will look for me there."

Fyn stared at her, fascinated by the play of expression on her face and in her eyes. She stood up and put her hands on her hips.

"If you could point me in the right the direction, I can take myself there. Though you're welcome to join me."

Her booted foot began to tap the floor.

"Or not."

She might have been gritting her teeth. Fyn got up and closed the small gap that divided them, forcing her to tip her head back to look at him. He'd thought someone would look for him once. If anyone came, it probably wouldn't be her people, but the Dusan making sure they'd killed her. He was trying to decide how to tell her that, when little sparks shot out her eyes.

"Fine."

She started to step around him. He didn't know which of them was more surprised when he grabbed her arm. He could feel her tense at the sudden contact. Her lips thinned into a stubborn line and her chin lifted. Her gaze narrowed in warning.

"It's not safe." He felt her jerk in surprise. The sound of his voice surprised him, too. "When it's light, I'll take you."

They were standing so close, he could smell the scent that had puzzled him as he carried her. She looked at him for a long moment, then the challenge in her eyes eased a bit.

"Thank you." There was still a chill in her voice.

She looked in the direction of the entrance and he braced for a flood of questions, but she eased her arm from his hold, as if she thought he might not let go. Had he scared her? She tucked her hands into her under arms. Maybe she was just cold.

"It's warmer here," he said, indicating the rocks he'd lit up.

She knelt and held her hands over the glowing warmth. Lashes and chin lifted slowly. Wary and curious warred for dominance in her eyes.

"You're really tall." An almost smile edged up the sides of her mouth. "I'm usually as tall or taller than most of the guys I know."

He crouched down across from her, hoping she would speak again. He liked the sound of her voice. It was soft and clear, with a slightly husky undertone.

"You've been very kind but I have to tell you," she sounded very serious, "You talk way too much."

What? He stared at her and suddenly she grinned at him. The movement sent warmth flooding into her face, like the sun topping the horizon.

His mouth smiled back before he told it to.

"So, you do have a sense of humor. That's a relief. That brooding silence was beginning to freak me out."

"I've been alone a long time." The words came a bit easier this time.

"Really? I couldn't tell." Her brows arched and her mouth was prim, but her eyes were bright with humor.

He shouldn't stare, but he couldn't help it. She was different from any woman he'd met, anywhere. She was still wary, but she wasn't afraid. She looked right at him and there was an air of confidence and yes, competence about her.

She sat back, crossing her legs. She started tapping her fingers again.

"So, you must have pulled me out of my bird?" She hesitated. "Was it trashed?"

Her bird must be her ship. Trashed? That would be crashed, maybe? He looked at her, not sure how to tell her.

"That bad? Tactically, the gomers sucked, but they were everywhere. It was a real furball and then I took a double hit to the six. Thought I was going to have to pull my loud handle—you know, punch out—but I didn't want to lose my bird, or be hanging in space in a freaking pod with everyone bumping heads around me." She sighed. "Man, Briggs is so going to bust my chops. He keeps telling me I fly like a girl. Now he's got proof."

Fyn blinked a little at this, but managed to figure out the essential point.

"You were attacked by the Dusan." It wasn't really a question.

"The gomers didn't stop to introduce themselves, just dived in and started shooting."

He noticed that she'd started to relax, now that they were talking. He should have remembered that about women. It hadn't been that long.

"Did they see you come here?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Probably. I think one of them started to follow me, but the colonel made him go away."

"The kernel?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Carey, our squadron commander."

Worry danced across her face. "They'll be worried about me."

"You think they will come?"

Her chin lifted. "We don't leave our people behind."

Buy The Key.

Please don't tell my high school science teacher I wrote a science fiction romance novel (not that he'd be surprised. He suspected I was making up science stuff back then, too.)

I never planned to write _The Key,_ or the four books that came after and turned into my _Project Enterprise_ series. I it never occurred to me I could take fictional adventures to other galaxies, but one day this character stalked to the front of my brain and said, "I want you to tell my story." I'm always happy when characters do that, but wow, Sara Donovan took over my head! I felt like I had split personality until I got her story written (which wasn't easy! It was a LONG story!) Even while I was writing it, I didn't know it was a space opera/science fiction romance.

I thought I was writing an action adventure novel, just one that happened to be set in outer space. So I wrote it and this amazing thing happened. I loved writing adventures set in space and I found this remarkable community of women who loved it, too. Many thanks to Laurie Green and The Science Fiction Romance Brigade for helping me figure all this out, for helping me go places I'd not gone before. :-)

Buy The Key

Pauline never liked reality, so she writes books. Seventeen of them, actually. She likes to wander among the genres, rampaging like Godzilla, because she does love peril mixed in her romance. Sign up for her newsletter.

Connect with Pauline: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Google+| Goodreads

# Sold to an Alien by Lisa Morrow

# About Sold to an Alien

Sold to an Alien is a sweet romance where two people find love in the strangest of circumstances. But unfortunately, the universe itself seems bound and determined to keep them apart.

Even on a spaceship with her adopted family, Brooke feels alone. But she's come to accept that in exchange for safety, she'll never experience true love of any sort. In such a dangerous place in the universe, the most a person should ever hope for is to feel safe. Unfortunately, cold reality strikes when their ship starts to malfunction, and she discovers that she's in more danger than she ever imagined.

Working for a special unit of the Gremlit's universal police force wasn't any easy job. Jace's life has been overwhelmed with violence and chaos. Now, he wants nothing more than peace and quiet, and yet, he's troubled by the loneliness that haunts his silent ship. So when a message is sent out, selling a beautiful, young woman with intelligent eyes, Jace decides he must have her. But when she brings danger and conflict back into his life, what will he be willing to give up to keep her at his side?

# Sample of Sold to an Alien

_B eep, beep, beep._

The sensor had been going off for hours, pounding Brooke's temples like two iron fists. She'd run every scanner, worked every possible angle. But as much as she tried to ignore the facts, the truth stared her painfully in the face. The oxygen purifier was failing.

It shouldn't have happened. All the ships, at least the government sponsored ones, had been built to withstand fifty years of travel. And although The Nightingale had been assembled by a private party, the Thompsons had paid for a government-quality product. Unlike her own parents.

"Can you at least turn off the damned beeping?"

Brooke spun to face the Thompson's oldest son as he stood in the doorway of the engine room. His normally angelic face was marred by deep lines of irritation.

"I guess I can now." She looked from the towering man back to the screen, and let her fingers fly over the keys.

An instant later, the beeping stopped.

All she'd wanted since the sound began was for silence, but now that she had it, the pit in her stomach grew to a crater. Silence usually meant she'd fixed a problem. This time, it meant she hadn't. That she couldn't.

"So, whiz," his voice was too casual. Ignorant. "How'd you fix it this time?"

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the nausea bubbling up. "I didn't."

Peeking, she watched as his pale blond brows drew together in confusion. His blue eyes had a distant-air as they processed her response, then snapped to her face as realization dawned. "What are you saying?" Then, more words bubbled out before she could answer. "If you turn off the warning, it makes it harder to trace the flaw. You've told us that a thousand times."

Brooke powered-down the screen and unplugged the cord from the oxygen **** purifier. But when she picked up the panel, she couldn't put it back in place. Her legs ached as she crouched, but her gaze lingered on the many lights of the intricate piece of equipment necessary for their survival. Instead of bright green curving through the microchips and wires, the light was tainted a nasty red.

How long did they have until it completely gave out? Days? Weeks?

She clenched the panel until her nails bit painfully into the metal. Something important was unraveling inside of her. Something she needed to pull back together at all costs. She took deep breaths, willing herself not to lose control.

"So what do we do now?" Max strode past her and began pacing the long room.

"You're not allowed..." the familiar words died on her lips. Until recently, the large and rather graceless man hadn't been allowed in the engine room. Everyone on board the ship had agreed that a room lined with large and small metal panels containing the inner-workings of the ship should be a _Max free_ room. But then a few weeks ago, his mother had demanded she start teaching him her skills. Even though he lacked all aptitude for such intricate work.

So now he was allowed in the room. Pacing loudly. His big boots pounding with the same intensity as the beeping had.

"Stop."

He froze.

She sensed his need to move, his frustrations and fears worn as visibly in the clenching of his hands and the stiffness of his back. If only she could show her own feelings so easily. Instead, she willed herself to put the panel back into place, and stood.

"We need to talk to your parents."

An unexpected horror came over his face. "No, Brooke, come on. You can fix anything. Just try again. We don't need to involve them in this. I mean—"

"I can't fix this."

Two long strides brought him so close to her that their breath mixed. "There's got to be _something_ else you can do."

She took a step back, then leaned down and picked up her computer. "We need to find a replacement, as soon as possible, or we're all going to run out of air. Even though you don't like all this 'science stuff,' we both know oxygen's sort of a necessity to human life."

He grabbed her arm as she tried to turn away, hauling her back. "Brooke—"

Instinct made her shove away as she tried and failed to keep the desperation out of her voice. "Don't!"

He released her. "Sorry." Guilt overshadowed his fear. "I forgot. I mean, I didn't mean to. But look, I don't think we should involve my parents. They've been kind of..."

"I know they haven't been happy lately." The surprise on his face was almost comical. "I'm not a moron. They're probably going to be furious when they hear about this, when they're already blowing up over every little thing. But this isn't like when we were kids, and you'd cover for me when I broke something. The only way we're going to make it is if your dad leaves, right away, to the Omega Trading Station."

He still looked unsure.

"Every second that passes leaves your dad less time to trade with the Gremlits. Do you really want to stand here and keep arguing?"

She walked out into the hall, throwing the strap of the computer over her shoulder. Reaching the ladder, she climbed, her bare feet curling around the metal rungs. She wanted to practice what she'd say, but Max noisily climbed the ladder below her.

"How expensive are oxygen purifiers?"

Holding in a sigh, she decided to hell with it. If he wanted to know it all, she'd tell him. "Probably way more than we can afford. And what's more, there's only a slim chance they'll have the right one. The company that made this ship only made a couple dozen others like it, so a Scavenger will have needed to strip a ship like ours, AND be at the trading station for us to have any shot at replacing it. Which, of course, won't matter much if we run out of air before then."

She didn't wait for him at the top of the ladder, but instead, started down the long walkway overlooking the cargo bay.

"So..."

Her shoulder stiffened as she turned back to look at him. _More questions? Seriously?_

"We need a hard to find piece that we probably can't afford, and may not have enough time to pick up and bring back."

"You got it."

His face visibly paled. Reaching out, he steadied himself on the railing.

She should've kept going, but a wave of guilt held her in place. Even though Max was older than her, he had a certain permanent man-childness to him that never ceased to amaze her. He seemed completely unaware of the difficult world they lived in, had never found a drive to learn any useful skills, and handled deep emotions about as well as an overly-tired toddler. But he was who he was. Fragile and sweet in a rare way. She was the one who often forgot it.

She inched closer to him, then reached out a hesitant hand to touch his shoulder. "You know why I'm hurrying? Because even against all odds, I know we have a shot to fix this thing. So why don't you let me worry about all of this, and you go find Daryl."

The cords of his muscular neck moved as his jaw worked. "I'm just worried—"

"It'll get fixed. You'll be okay. I promise." She smiled, giving his arm a little shake.

"No," his frown deepened. "I'm worried about you."

That took her by surprise. "Why?"

And that's when she saw it, the secret hiding in the way he avoided her gaze. "I just don't want to give mom another reason to... to be angry with you."

It was as if the ground shifted beneath her feet. "Angry? She's angry with me?"

Brooke could still remember how the older woman had carried her from the wreckage that had once been her parents' ship. From that moment on, Angela had treated her like the daughter she'd never had.

When the Thompsons, and Max's lover Daryl, went in their stasis chambers every few years, Angela always cried. The older woman hated that they didn't have a fifth chamber for Brooke. It bothered her to think of Brooke alone on this ship for three years at a time with nothing but robots and holograms to keep her company.

But the last time they woke up from stasis, Angela seemed... different. There was a change in the way Angela looked at her and spoke to her. Brooke had thought it had more to do with the tension she sensed between Angela and her husband, but maybe she was wrong.

"Tell me," she begged. "Max, please."

He shrugged. "I think by now she'd hoped... you know, that you and I..."

"Would be together," she frowned. "But I thought they were over that by now."

Angela and Bruce had done nothing to hide their hopes that she and their son would fall in love and start a family. At least in the beginning. But slowly, it became clear that Max and Daryl had far more chemistry. Even if his parents didn't like it.

He wouldn't meet her gaze. "Just, be careful how you say things okay? And make sure to remind them that they'll need _you_ to put in the oxygen purifier."

"Of course they will." _What an odd thing to say._

"Oh!" His face brightened. "I have an idea. Stay here, just for a minute, okay?"

He didn't give her time to answer, but sprinted off down the walkway towards their bedchambers.

Brooke stared down at her sweaty palms. How had things possibly gotten worse over the past few minutes? She hated the idea that Angela might be mad at her. But more than that, she hated that the woman had hid her feelings from Brooke. They were family, right? Hadn't that always been what Angela had said?

A movement drew her eye. Daryl jogged into view shirtless, running in circles below in the cargo bay. She leaned over and watched him, feeling strangely guilty. Daryl didn't like her, and he especially didn't like her staring at him.

Maybe he thought she was attracted to him? She wasn't. In truth, he was simply a problem she couldn't solve, like a puzzle with far too many pieces. Nothing made her more frustrated than something that seemed beyond her ability to fix. Much like the broken oxygen purifier...

Daryl sat down, curling up as he did sit ups. Sweat gave his dark hair a healthy sheen. Beads ran down his high forehead and dripped from his square jaw. But it was his tattoos that had her transfixed. They were like a fungus, crawling up his bare chest and stopping at his jaw. The red one at his throat always drew her gaze the most, over all the black ones. It was shaped like the petal of a rose, almost concealing the evidence of his suicide attempt six years before.

That was just one of the mysteries surrounding the man. What had driven him to try to end his life that day? What demons haunted him that she couldn't see?

His shoulders hit the ground, and his arms dropped to his sides. The rise and fall of his chest brought her gaze back down, where she saw the gauze taped just above the rise of his jeans. Another tattoo? Today must've been a bad day. He always said giving himself a tattoo reminded him of how painful it was to die, a good reminder on days when his dark thoughts threatened to pull him under.

She knew he'd seen her one second before her gaze met his.

Rising from the ground he stalked towards her, then disappeared as he weaved through some large crates just below her. She drew back at the sound of him climbing the ladder not far from her.

The smell of his sweat hit her a few seconds before he came into view, his shoes hitting the walkway with an intentional clatter. "What are you doing?"

She shrugged. "Waiting for Max."

He'd gotten a towel from somewhere, dabbing at his neck with slow movements. She was transfixed by the way the rose petal glistened at his throat. The scar was nothing more than the spine of the petal now, but it was an ever-present reminder of the raging battle within him.

"Yeah, you showing him how to fix more stuff?" His words were laced with a soft sarcasm.

Her fascination in him vanished in an instant. The man was like a wild animal, interesting from afar, dangerous from up close. Their conversations were never pleasant.

"I was."

He scoffed. "It'd be like teaching you simple manners, just an utter waste of time."

Sometimes she let his attitude slide. Today, she wasn't in the mood.

"Always so jealous..."

"Jealous! Of what?" He crowded her, trying his best to be intimidating.

She didn't know his story, but she knew his life hadn't been easy. Cutting him a bit of slack was different from being walked all over though. That was something she wouldn't tolerate.

"Of everyone," she said, holding his gaze.

He flinched, the barb striking whatever soft spot he hid. "One day—"

"I got it."

Max was running at top speed, but slowed as he saw them together.

It took her a second to notice what he clutched, Bunny. She frowned. The old stuffed animal was the one thing she'd taken with her when leaving her parent's ship. But for the past few years, it'd done little more than sit on a shelf gathering dust.

"Max..."

He placed it in her hands, flashing her a smile. "Hey, it can't hurt. Right?"

"I think some boxing gloves might've been more useful."

They both laughed.

Daryl shouldered his way between them, frowning. "What's with the dirty rat?"

"She's bringing mom and pop some bad news. I thought reminding them of the little girl they rescued might not be the worst idea."

"Which I'm not going to do," she said, handing the stuffed animal back. "Nice try though."

He sighed. "Okay, it was a pathetic attempt at manipulation, but I'm really worried."

"Is it that bad?" Daryl perked up like a flower in the sunlight.

"Yeah," Max's voice wavered on the word.

Daryl wrapped a thin arm around his lover, no longer an aggressor, but a protector. "What is it, honey?"

The question snapped Brooke's focus back into place. How had she let herself get so distracted? They were in a dire situation, and it was her unfortunate job to deliver the bad news to Bruce and Angela. Not have a battle of wills with Daryl.

She turned and headed down the hall. Each step had her strengthening her resolve. They couldn't lose the Nightingale. She wouldn't let it happen.

Without a working ship, their lives would change dramatically. At best, they could scrap it at a space port and buy themselves spots on other ships, or quarters at a space station itself. At worst, they'd die, leaving another empty ship on the trail to their new home world, just waiting to be picked over by scavengers.

Her footsteps sounded too loud. Why did one of her infamous headaches need to strike now? She needed to focus on the problem.

Rubbing her temples, she slowed her pace. Having a ship gave them power. Choices. And the possibility of one day reaching their destination. Angela and Bruce would understand that immediately, and she'd do everything she could to help them gather the funds for the expensive part.

Too quickly, she was standing before the doors to the mess hall as they **** slid open.

Bruce stared down at his computer, no doubt reviewing the inventory from their latest scavenger mission. One of the lights overhead flickered, as it had been for months, but the shifting light drew attention to the gray spreading through his dark hair. Angela sat at the table across from him, leaning back in her chair with a steaming cup of coffee. The woman's gaze was fixed on her husband, who appeared to be pointedly ignoring her.

She looked up as Brooke entered and smiled. For the first time, Brooke noticed a slight hollowness to her eyes as she looked at her. Or was it her imagination?

"How did the repair go?" Angela's accent softened each word.

"Not exactly as expected."

Bruce stared over the top of his computer. "You're rubbing your head again."

She dropped her hand. "It's nothing."

"You've been carrying a little too much tension lately," he said, his gaze running over her. "Later, I can help you with that, if you'd like."

"Why? Are you a doctor now?" Angela shot at him, her words filled with hate.

He ignored her, still staring. "Just let me know."

Brooke couldn't explain why his offer made her uncomfortable, but it did. "I'm fine."

One of his brows rose, but his gaze slid back to his computer.

Angela turned a forced smile on her. "You said the repair didn't go as planned?" But then, the older woman's gaze went to her hair.

She touched it, feeling self-conscious. "What is it?"

"Nothing, hon." Angela took a tie from her wrist, while staring intently at Brooke's hair, and drew her long black strands up into a loose bun, a mirror image of Brooke's own. "What were you saying?"

She felt Bruce's eyes on her again, looking from her to his wife, but saying nothing. What was going on? She'd sensed the tension between them since they'd come out of Stasis, but now she wondered how much of it was geared towards her.

"The oxygen purifier... it was malfunctioning."

"Yes," Angela said, her gaze still on the younger woman's head. "Have you ever thought of cutting your hair, sweetie?"

"Uh," this was not at all how she'd expected the conversation to go. "No."

"Well, I think you should. In fact, you want me to cut it for you tonight?"

Bruce slammed his computer closed. "Leave her alone, Angela."

Her smile grew, her deep brown eyes widening. "What are you—?"

"Your hair looks beautiful, Brooke. Long hair suits you well."

"Does it?" Angela snarled, the false smile gone like a trick of the lights. "You've always liked long hair. But I thought you preferred brunettes?"

"Enough!" he shouted, standing up. "Brooke, why don't you go to your room?"

Her nerves tangled together. But as much as she wanted to leave, the gravity of the situation wouldn't let her. "The oxygen purifier has a couple more weeks, at best."

Her words fell like stones into the strained room, and suddenly, all attention was on her.

"You've got to be kidding me," Bruce said, falling back into his chair.

Angela picked up her coffee, then set it back down again. "So, what, we need to get another one?"

Bruce ignored her. "You're absolutely sure?"

"One hundred percent."

Angela's voice rose. "I hate when you two do this! What does this mean? How worried should we be?"

Bruce rubbed at the stubble on his chin and swore, then flipped open his computer. "It means, I need to sell everything of value and head to the trading station. Tomorrow. Or we'll run out of oxygen and die." His fingers danced over the keys, no doubt looking for a list of their inventory.

"Everything. Of. Value." Angela spoke the words slowly, like she was processing a bad dream. "No, Bruce, no."

He answered without looking at her. "We don't have a choice."

"The hell we don't, and you and I both know it."

He finally looked at his wife, really looked at her, and there was hate in his eyes. "Brooke, go to your room. Now."

Backing away, she was nearly running when she hit the hall. None of this was good, but at least they had a plan, which meant they had a chance. Bruce would do whatever was necessary to save them all, even if it meant they'd be living much less luxuriously.

That had to be enough.

**Chapter Two**

That night, Brooke collapsed into a deep sleep. Her exhaustion allowed her to escape the intense stress of an evening filled with stripping everything of value and loading it on the transporter ship. She'd thought nothing could wake her from her dreamless sleep, but a flash of light had her bolting awake in a panic.

Two more flashes.

She blinked into the darkness until Angela's face came slowly into focus.

"Go back to sleep. Everything's okay." The woman wore a long blue nightgown, her dark hair still worn in a loose bun on her head. At her side, a camera dangled from her fingertips.

Brooke drew her blanket over the thin, white tank top she'd worn to sleep that night, feeling exposed in a way she never had before. "Why—?"

Angela turned, heading towards the door to the younger woman's room, but stopped. She looked back, her face intense. "You really are a beautiful girl." Her fingers brushed the red button on the wall, and the metal door slid open. The dimly lit hall looked eerie as the older woman stepped out into it, and the doors closed behind her.

_Was everyone losing their minds?_

Taking several deep breaths, she tried to calm herself, but her entire body shook. _Go back to sleep. It was weird, but everything's fine._ She lay back down, but adrenaline pumped through her body. She wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.

Her room had always been a great comfort to her, but for the first time, she felt a deep sense of unease. Shadows clung around her desk, her closet, and even the open doorway leading into her bathroom. The metal walls were no longer serene, but mockingly bare, leaving her with nothing but her frightened thoughts.

Sitting up, she wrapped the blanket around her body and shuffled to her computer. Pressing the _on_ button, the screen flickered onto the main screen. _Now what? Investigate the ships around me or watch old Earth shows?_ Moving her fingers before she decided, she opened one.

Six ships blinked on a star-strewn map on her screen. The closest ship was an unusual Gremlit scavenger ship, only slightly smaller than their own. Two other ships, a day or so further than the scavenger ship were large, slow moving Luxury ships. She'd never been on one, but Bruce had described them with disdain. Mostly, they included a couple hundred bored, pleasure-seeking aliens, leaving their homeworlds to explore space in comfort.

There were three ships spread further in all directions, probably two days out from their location. She guessed they had anywhere between ten and twenty people aboard, given their size. With the number of weapons their sensors could pick up (and she was sure there were many more hidden from their sensors), they were either the Gremlit forces that policed space or the mercenary forces hired to cover the gaps the police couldn't.

She frowned. Hopefully Bruce was keeping an eye on them. The mercenaries were often more like space-pirates than anything else.

_Still, just an average night in space. Nothing too terribly out of the ordinary, which was probably a good thing._

Her gaze went back to the first ship. She imagined there was a three or four man crew, probably all Gremlits... but sometimes she stumbled across a human. _Should she?_ She clicked, a flutter of excitement pushing back some of her lingering nervousness.

One man's face came onto the screen. She leaned forward, staring into the intense picture of the most gorgeous man she'd ever laid eyes on. Something within her clenched He was most certainly a Gremlit, his eyes an intense amber, his skin several shades darker than her own. Long dark hair fell to his shoulders, and a two day old beard dusted his face.

But what she liked the most, his face told a story. There was a curious scar in one thick, dark brow. His nose had a slight bump, probably from a broken nose badly healed. He wasn't just a flawlessly beautiful actor from one of her old Earth shows, he was a person. Not perfect, but somehow even more fascinating for his imperfections.

She stretched. Her head pounded, but this time from exhaustion. Yet, she looked back at the screen. Back at the intriguing Gremlit male.

She stared too long before realizing there were no other crew members listed. Did he have unaccounted people on his ship? Or was he really running the whole thing himself?

Wetting her lips, she stared harder. If he was alone, he was probably lonely, just like her. She'd bet her tech-skills he wouldn't disdain her company like Daryl, nor only spend time with her when it was convenient to him like Max.

Slumping forward onto her palm, she sighed. Living aboard the Nightingale gave her a safety she'd never devalue, but it also meant she'd likely spend the remainder of her life alone. She'd never have the chance to experience the kind of sweet love so many of the old Earth shows revealed. A wooing dance of holding hands, laughing, and that very special first kiss.

Her eyes drifted to his strong shoulders and the peek of chest where his top two buttons hadn't been closed. Her thoughts strayed to the other kind of love in those old shows... the nails raking across backs, moans of desire, and falling apart afterwards in ecstasy.

No. She'd never have that. But she would be safe. Lonely but never alone.

That needed to be enough.

She stared into those intense amber-colored eyes. Still, it didn't hurt to fantasize a little...

"Hello?"

The unfamiliar voice had her shooting awake for the second time that night. She looked down at her keyboard in confusion and touched her cheek where the keys had pressed into it. What kind of dream had her imagining the deeply timbered voice?

Pleasure awoke within her again. Oh, she remembered! Her dream had been like nothing she'd ever imagined before. It'd been about—

"What's your name?"

Very slowly, she looked at her screen. The Gremlit male with the face from her dreams stared, his gaze raking over her.

She felt her mouth drop open. She had to be dreaming still. Right?

The man's hair was tussled. His beard looked longer than in his picture, and he was shirtless. Her heart pounded so fast her head spun. She thought Daryl and Max were muscular. This man had an eight-pack of muscles so perfect she longed to run her hand along them.

Looking back at his handsome face, she expected to see those intense eyes locked on her, but his gaze had moved down. She followed the direction of his gaze. There were her breasts, straining against the skin-tight material of the white tank top. Blushing, she gathered her blanket around her body, then looked back at the screen.

"I'm Jace," he said, one brow raised. "I thought I'd guessed at the reason you'd contacted me so late, but now I think I might've been wrong."

Embarrassment and fear sparked to life inside her. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back in his chair. "A mistake?"

"My face hit the keyboard, when I, uh, fell asleep." Her explanation sounded lame, even to her own ears.

"That seems like a pretty complicated thing for your face to do," he said, a bit smugly.

Yeah, her face hitting the keyboard wouldn't have gone through all the screens necessary to look up a map of the ships around her, select his, and chose to contact him. He had to think she was lying. She would, if she was in his shoes.

"I already had your ship pulled up with your image..." she started to explain, wanting to wipe the smug look from his face. But then, her mind caught up with her mouth and she cringed, what she was admitting was possibly worse. "You know. When I..." she gestured at the keyboard and then him, mortified.

He leaned closer to his screen. "Why did you fall asleep staring at my image?"

She looked up at the ceiling of her room. What could she possibly say to end this conversation without embarrassing herself further?

"I sometimes like to look at all the ships around me, that's all."

"Why?" he asked, his tone generally interested.

"Because," she searched for the truth, "it makes me feel connected to something more than myself and the people on this ship."

She thought he would laugh.

He didn't. "I understand. We all have our own way of coping with the vastness of space."

"What do you do?" the words slipped out before she could stop them.

He straightened, his eyes becoming guarded. "Nothing."

The hurt she felt surprised her. It was the middle of the night. This man was a stranger. One she _really_ shouldn't be talking to. What did it matter that she'd revealed something private about herself and he hadn't?

Reaching for the button to end their communication, his words stopped her. "No, wait! You never told me your name."

Her finger hovered over the button. What could it hurt? "Brooke," she whispered, then let her finger fall.

The screen went back to the star-strewn map with the ships blinking around theirs. Her stomach fluttered strangely as she closed the screen and walked to her bed on trembling legs. She should regret talking to the Gremlit male. Bruce would be furious if he knew she'd communicated with someone outside the ship. It was against their rules for her.

But as she lay down, the only thing she felt was a warming satisfaction.

Why Lisa wrote _Sold to an Alien_:

_Sold to an Alien_ is a story idea that came to me in a flash of inspiration. Immediately, I sat down to type it up. A lot of my novels have a clear direction. This one was entirely steered by the characters and where they wanted to go. The end result is one of my favorite romances, because my hero and heroine left me wanting more.

Find out where to buy _Sold to An Alien_here.

Lisa Morrow is a life-long reader who treasures fantasy in all forms. Being a middle child in a large family gave her a unique perspective on the world, but few experiences compare to her time spent studying abroad in Cambridge, England and wandering throughout Europe.

After her travels, Lisa settled down in Arizona to teach junior high English, and later, to spend time with her young children, husband, and cats. To some people, her life may seem quiet. But to her, every day is spent in a world colored by the imagination of children, and fantastical worlds created by her very own mind.

Connect with Lisa: Website | Twitter | Facebook

# Grand Master's Pawn by Aurora Springer

# About Grand Master's Pawn

The complete Grand Master's Trilogy comprises: Grand Master's Pawn, Grand Master's Game and Grand Master's Mate.

Reviewers say: "Exciting and vivid sci fi/fantasy/adventure, grounded in real emotions and fully realized characters."

"I loved the heroine, she is fearless, smart and kind."

Young empath, Violet Hunter, dreams of exploring exotic planets as a Grand Master's pawn. When life-threatening cracks appear in the teleportal web, Violet is tasked with investigating the disruption. Suspicions point to the twelve Grand Masters, and she must penetrate their curtain of secrecy to identify the culprit. Her challenges escalate when she meets the enigmatic man behind the griffin avatar. Armed with only her erratic powers and a mishmash of allies, she must challenge the most powerful beings in the galaxy.

# Sample of Grand Master's Pawn

"The Council of Twelve will be destroyed." The words were blazed into his memory.

He glared at the name on the list of top candidates, Violet Hunter. A spate of questions swept across his mind. How had she dared to apply for the selection? Was she foolish or merely ignorant of her heritage? He scrolled through the records once more, seeking a clue to her personality. Her qualifications were superb without a hint of prohibited psychic talent.

Psi crackled and the screen blanked.

Her application was futile. What Grand Master would take the risk of employing the prophet's daughter as a pawn? What a crazy choice, embracing the omen of their destruction.

His grim laughter echoed through the room.

Alerted by the rustle of dry leaves, Violet Hunter rotated to face the sound. Three yellow striped velociraptors bounded through the giant ferns, cruel eyes focused on their prey. Acting with honed reflexes, she sidestepped to elude the claws of the foremost attacker. Swinging her sword with both hands, she sliced into the neck of the second reptile, and ducked under the toothy jaws of the third. Ignoring the small human, the two wounded carnivores tore into each other. Violet swiveled to meet the bellowing onslaught of the first dinosaur. She thrust her blade into its throat and skipped out of reach of its teeth. Its thrashing body thudded to the ground, flattening fern fronds. Jumping away from the snapping melee of dying and bloody dinosaurs, Violet hit the off switch.

Striding out of the dimly lit game room into the annex, she hung the sword on the rack, dropped the helmet on a shelf, tidied her hair, and sighed. Bored with the simulated combat sessions, Violet longed to explore alien planets. Real life would have advantages. She preferred to carry a multipurpose laser instead of wielding the archaic sword. And, her hidden empathic sense would warn her of lurking predators. She had kept her talent secret from her teachers at the Space Academy because of the Grand Masters' ban.

Leaping up the stairs from the underground training facility, she paced across the campus towards the Council Hall for the annual selection of pawns. The black marble facade of the windowless building reflected the overcast sky, and the massive iron gates at the entrance deterred casual visitors. A wintry gust froze her bare face and she shivered at the ominous symbol. Despite her forbidden empathy, the Grand Masters were her best hope of escaping Terra for a career in space. Anger flared as she remembered the rejection from Space Corps, "Does not meet the physical standards." Translation, she was too small.

She sensed Tessa's nervous mind an instant before her friend stepped out of the shelter of a doorway. Tessa's delicate beauty was heightened in the cold air.

Tessa gushed, "Oh Vi, I'm so happy you're here. I've been waiting for ages." She glanced at the crowded plaza in front of Council Hall. "I couldn't face going in there alone." Gazing at Violet from her lovely blue eyes, she said, "I applied only because my parents insisted. They say it's an honor to serve the Grand Masters."

Torn between amusement and annoyance at her friend's timidity, Violet retorted, "Tessa Brown, you're twenty two. Your parents can't force you to do anything."

"I don't want to disappoint them," Tessa whispered, clinging to Violet's arm.

"You won't. I predict you'll marry a wealthy noble or a brilliant inventor," Violet joked. With Tessa's beauty and sweet nature, marriage was surely in her future, while Violet was fated to remain single. What man would wed a woman who could read his mind? Even when she tried not to pry, thoughts slipped unbidden through her mental shield. But Tessa, like everyone else at the Academy, did not know about her psychic talent.

Tessa protested, "How can you be so cheerful? We don't know what we'll face inside that awful black building." She shook her blonde tresses, and said, in an obvious attempt to evade her worries, "It's a pity your mother didn't stay after our graduation last week."

Compressing her lips, Violet said, "My mother ported back to Cirrus-beta. She couldn't bear to stay any longer. Ever since my father's death, Silvia's hated the sight of the Space Academy. It's the first time she's left home in twenty years." Her mother's grief had haunted her childhood. Violet had learned to insulate her mind from the sadness, but she seldom visited Silvia these days, and never stayed long in her childhood home.

Unaware of Violet's distress, Tessa asked, "Do you remember your father?"

"No. I was two years old when he died and Silvia never speaks of him. She still mourns for him."

"How sad." Tears glistened in Tessa's soft eyes.

Shaking her head, Violet dismissed her friend's sympathy and gestured towards the flagstone plaza. "Come on, Tessa. Let's join the other candidates."

Bracing for the flood of tense emotions, Violet tightened her mental shield and tugged her reluctant friend towards the milling crowd. The candidates filled the plaza, although the gates were not due to open for another thirty minutes. People stood in quiet groups, or shuffled restlessly around the plaza. Most were men and woman of Terran stock with a scattering of aliens. Violet noticed the vivid green feathers of a Flia and the pricked ears of two furry Aman-ellans.

Scanning the other candidates, Violet wondered if she would be chosen. Despite the odds against her, Mother Tingu had been confident Violet would be chosen. After ten years of secret lessons to control her empathic talent in defiance of the Grand Masters' prohibition, Violet trusted the White Mother's judgment.

A familiar, hostile mind loomed through the crowd and Violet steeled her mental block. Big, blond Marius Krupp shoved past her and taunted, "Violet, the midget candidate. You're no beauty with that silly mark on your face. What Grand Master would want you?" He snickered and swaggered away to join his cronies in a noisy group of toughs.

Glaring at his retreating back, Violet shook off his disruptive influence.

"He's horrid," Tessa cried. "Your birthmark looks like a star."

Violet smiled. Trust Tessa to turn a defect into a badge of honor.

She sensed her friend, Srinivasan, approach from behind. His voice was sincere. "Forget about your size, Violet. Marius is foolish to antagonize you. I've seen you trounce larger men than him." Srini's slender physique was also deceptive, concealing his combat skills. He was a prime candidate for selection as a pawn, a mathematical genius and an expert in deciphering esoteric languages.

"I suppose the Grand Masters won't care about my height," she said, smiling at her friend. "Although, I've no idea how they select their pawns."

His black eyes gleamed and Srini nodded amiably. "Let me enlighten you. I've analyzed the Grand Masters' selections for the past twenty years. Statistically, the candidates with the top academic qualifications are the most likely to be selected. So, our chances are excellent, Violet. Both of us achieved the top grades. Your xenobiology degree is especially suitable for exploring planets."

"Flashy, I'm glad to hear your conclusions. Five out of a hundred seems poor odds." Violet glanced at the massive gates. "I wish the gates would open. It's already several minutes past the due time." She sensed the level of anxiety ratchet up as the candidates stared at the iron gates. Complaints sounded at the delay.

Impatient candidates scuffled their feet on the flagstones and Violet wondered if the Grand Masters deliberately kept them waiting outside. Ordinary people must bow to their superiors. That attitude was on par with the ominous exterior of the Council Hall.

Tessa tugged at Violet's arm. Her voice quivered. "I don't want to be chosen as a pawn. Do you, Vi?"

Brushing aside her timid friend's fears, Violet grinned. "Why not? I'd love to travel the galaxy. Besides, I want to learn more about the mysterious Grand Masters."

"I've heard they're horrible. Truly evil, and not even human," Tessa whimpered, her brown eyes wide in alarm.

Grim images crept into Violet's mind and she shivered. "Who knows what they are? The Grand Masters might be aliens or even machines, if machines can have psi power." Thrusting her fears aside, she tried to pacify her friend. "Don't worry, Tessa. I'm sure they won't want a scared pawn."

"I should love to be chosen," Srini said, his black eyes shining with excitement. "It's a great honor to serve the Grand Masters and I've always wanted to explore the galaxy."

Violet smiled at his enthusiasm. She was more cautious. "Yes, I'd love to be the first person to discover intelligent aliens on an uncharted planet. But, the pawn's missions can be dangerous."

"Travel is hazardous these days," Srini said. A frown shadowed his face. "My brother missed our graduation ceremony. He was stranded on a planet in Outer Sagittarius when the portals broke."

"How awful," Tessa cried with instant sympathy.

Shaking her head, Violet was quiet. Doubts crowded into her mind as the minutes passed. Would she be selected by one of the enigmatic Grand Masters? She was desperate to leave Terra, where the high population stressed her sensitive mind. Chewing on her lower lip, she steeled herself for the interview.

A gong rang and the iron gates swung open with the swish of well-oiled hinges. The crowd of graduates surged forward, their feet rustling on the flagstones. Violet cringed at the flare of their excitement and tightened her mental shield. The candidates marched through the gates into a large hall adorned with colored banners. They waited silently for instructions.

A loudspeaker blared, "Candidates will enter the interview chamber in groups of twenty."

Two black-uniformed guards stood on either side of an inner door, which was decorated in images of the major civilized planets. The guards opened the door and allowed the first group of twenty candidates to enter the room. They walked through the door in silence.

By easing past more reluctant candidates, Violet maneuvered to the front of the crowd. She had decided the best strategy was to wait for the third or fourth group. Then, she would avoid an early interview when the Grand Masters might prefer to see more candidates and still hope to be examined before all the pawns were selected.

Her two friends stood beside her. Srini had a serious expression on his dusky face, while Tessa's fearful eyes pleaded for moral support. Violet was more curious than frightened. Would they see the twelve mysterious Grand Masters at the interview?

After a short interval, the second group of candidates was called inside. Violet sensed their taut excitement as they passed through the door. There was no sign of the first group and they must have departed by another exit.

Her face blanched with terror, Tessa gripped Violet's hand. "I'm scared," she moaned.

"Don't worry. It won't take long. The Grand Masters seem to decide quickly," Violet said to encourage her fainthearted friend.

The door opened for the third group of candidates. Violet stepped forward, eager to complete this step. Whether she succeeded in becoming a pawn or not, her life would move into the next stage after today.

Marius boasted loudly, "The Grand Masters dominate the galaxy. They rule over many planets. I'm going to grab a piece of that power." Shouldering roughly past her, he strode through the door.

Obnoxious brute, she thought, let him be the first to take the stage. But, his words disturbed her. Did the Grand Masters control entire planets? She walked steadily toward the door, staying with her two friends. Any Grand Master who chose Marius would not be to her taste. She hoped to find one with less grandiose ambitions.

Inside the interview room, Violet stood in the middle of the twenty candidates. Tessa clutched her hand, nearly desperate with terror. Srini stood on her other side with a frown of concentration on his brown face.

The candidates clustered at the back of the room, staring at a low platform bearing a row of strange objects. Twelve black spheres stood on top of tall cylinders. Violet was disappointed. No Grand Masters were visible in the room. She could sense no living entities except the twenty jittery candidates.

An eerie humming sound filled the room, prompting gasps of alarm from her companions. Colored points of light flared on the spheres. Some spheres had a single pair of lights like two human eyes, while other spheres bore three, five or more colored lights. Violet saw red, blue, green and yellow lights. She sensed very faint presences, as if the Grand Masters were watching the candidates via the pseudo eyes on the spheres.

Tessa trembled violently. Violet dropped her friend's hand, ignoring her beseeching eyes. She did not wish to be contaminated by Tessa's display of weakness. They would be judged separately.

An artificial voice called, "Candidates will walk onto the stage, one at a time, and stand still for evaluation by the Grand Masters."

One brave candidate stepped up, nearly stumbling in his haste. He stood silently for a few minutes before he was dismissed to the left exit. Her tormenter, Marius, strode to the front. He was dismissed even faster than the first candidate.

Violet walked forward, resolved to take her chance. She stood erect and stared at the row of lighted spheres. An uncanny vision wavered before her eyes, and she tensed, holding her breath in awe. The hazy image resolved into twelve entities on thrones, human men and women and alien creatures. Their eyes glowed in the colors she had seen on the spheres. One alien was a mass of writhing tentacles, while another resembled a green blob. One humanoid woman wore red robes, another woman had a green gown, and two men were clad in somber black robes.

In the midst of this amazing sight, her attention was caught by a dark man in blue robes seated at one end of the twelve thrones. He had a grim face with fierce black eyebrows over a hooked nose. His eyes were half lidded. While she watched, his eyes opened and piercing blue beams flashed onto her face. She stared boldly into his laser blue eyes. Yet, in the next moment, his gaze slid past, and she doubted he had even noticed her.

She stiffened in alarm and shielded, hoping to conceal her psychic power. The eerie vision of the twelve entities vanished as swiftly as it had arisen. Violet was disappointed. She wanted to inspect the Grand Masters more closely. Surely, she had perceived the mysterious Grand Masters in the transient image. Would one of those strange beings select her as a pawn?

She blinked, returning to the reality of the interview room with the lighted spheres on black cylinders. The mechanical voice called, "You have been chosen. Walk through the exit on your right."

Violet grinned and raised her fist in triumph. She had succeeded in the first step of her risky venture. As a pawn, she could study her Grand Master and pursue her dream of exotic travel.

My initial concept of the adventures of a young woman (the Pawn, Violet Hunter) on diverse planets evolved into the changing relationship and love story of Violet and her Grand Master, Athanor Griffin. Following the chess theme, the Griffin is the unseen player directing Violet on missions where she teleports to different planets or moons with distinct environments and weird lifeforms. He is annoyed by her disobedience, but learns she achieves success. Everything changes once they meet, and Violet enters the secret world of the Grand Masters. The titles of the three books chart the progress of their quest and their romance. The stories are filled with unique characters, color and hints of mythology. Important characters include the dragon lord Ythris of fiery Sythos with his parallel love story and friendship with Violet. Meet the Master Smith with his forge fueled by a volcano, and the vicious Red Queen, Morrigu with her red eyes and four arms. Each powerful psychic has an aura of a specific color, and their powers are amplified by special crystals of a matching hue. Blue-eyed Athanor employs sapphires, while Violet is attuned to amethysts. Follow the clues with Violet to discover the truth about the powerful Grand Masters and the destruction of the portals.

Find how out how to buy this book here.

Aurora Springer is a scientist morphing into a novelist. She has a PhD in molecular biophysics and discovers science facts in her day job. She has invented adventures in weird worlds for as long as she can remember. In 2014, Aurora achieved her life-long ambition to publish her stories. Her works are character-driven romances set in weird worlds described with a sprinkle of humor. Some of the stories were composed thirty years ago. She was born in the UK and lives in Atlanta with her husband, a dog and two cats to sit on the keyboard. Her hobbies, besides reading and writing, include outdoor activities like gardening, watching wildlife, hiking and canoeing.

Aurora has published science fiction romances in three series, two novellas and short stories. Her first series, Atrapako on Eden, describes the interactions of humans on the terraformed planet of Eden with scaled aliens from the hostile planet of Vkani. She has published two books in this series: The Lady is Blue and Dragons of Vkani. Her second series about psychics in space, Grand Master's Trilogy comprising: Grand Master's Pawn, Grand Master's Game, and Grand Master's Mate. The third series, the Secret Supers, has alien-derived young superheroes on contemporary Earth. The first book is Super Starrella. Her short story, Gifts of Jangalore, is set in the Grand Masters' Universe. Her standalone novellas are: A Tale of Two Colonies and Captured by the Hawk.

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# Cynthia the Invincible by Amelia Treader

# About Cynthia the Invincible

On the run with from the alien Cataxi the space pirate "Cynthia the Invincible" is stranded in Earth's dim prehistory - Regency England, 1810. She finds that real life in the Regency is different from the game 'Jane Austen World;' especially when it comes to love.

Coarse mouthed, hard drinking and bound only by the laws of physics, the space pirate, "Cynthia the Invincible" is on the run with from the alien Cataxi. She is stranded in Earth's dim prehistory when a lucky shot on her ship destroys the jump unit. Marooned in 1810 she is forced to hide while the ship tries to repair itself. Since she enjoys playing the computer game "Jane Austen World" she hides in Regency England. She finds that real life in the Regency is different from the game. Especially when it comes to love.

Living in the Regency poses many novel challenges for her. Mundane things like eating real food rather than the ship's synthetics or learning to ride a horse with a mind of her own pose obstacles that she must learn to overcome. Others are subtle, such as the withdrawal from the drugs that allow her to conquer the long times required for interstellar travel, even with a jump drive. Learning to live with and trust other people after so man years rather than alone in a small ship causes problems. Especially when she faces the moral quandary of whether to use her advanced survival technology to save a friend's life. Far worse, one of the less pleasant alien species is trying to alter Earth's history to eliminate competition from the Terran Empire.

These problems would sort themselves out, given time. Does she have the time?

# Sample of Cynthia the Invincible

### Chapter One

**T ake off.**

Cynthia finished her short stay at the small spaceport on New Eden in the disputed border-space where the Terran, Cataxi and Xylub domains mixed in an uneasy peace. New Eden was a cynically misnamed barren rock at the outside of the Gamma-Lyria solar system where the rule of law was, at best, tenuous. More often it was non-extant. The lawless environment entirely suited Cynthia. She'd spent some credits on food and fuel for her single person scoutship, and rather more credits on entertainment at the local pub. The relative expense reflected the price of Wodka this far from the main reaches of the Terran domain, rather than the quality of the entertainment. Humans tended to be scarce out here. Somehow liaisons with aliens, even the ones that vaguely looked human, left her unexcited.

Bored with this interstellar backwater, she filed for permission to take off at the port office. Then she lazily strolled to her ship, and told Chris, her computer companion and friend, to take off when the clearance came through. In the meantime she poured herself a martini and settled back as he reviewed safety procedures with her for the ten-thousandth time.

Clearance finally came. Chris warned her with a conventional short countdown, "Miss Cynthia, We'll take off with on a count of ten, nine, what the Hades, zero!"

The unexpected and extraordinarily rapid takeoff kicked Cynthia back into her seat so hard that she blacked out. When she recovered from the shock she shouted at her ship's computer, "Chris! What the hell was that about?" Under normal circumstances Chris would take the machine up smoothly. There would be little more than a flutter in the bottom of her stomach, and maybe a small ripple in her martini. Indeed, it was the height of bad manners to accelerate off planet too rapidly and disturb the stratosphere. This time her martini was dripping off the wall behind her while fragments of the glass littered the floor.

"Sorry Ma'am. It was an emergency."

"An emergency?" Chris had led her through the regular pre-takeoff drill. Fasten seat-belts, what to pull if there was an emergency, where the oxygen mask would drop from and, finally, how to use the seat cushion as a flotation device in the unlikely event that you were still in one piece after crashing into the ocean. He was known for his sense of humor. That was part of why he had been voted the most personable control program of 2342. Cynthia considered the credits she used upgrading to him well spent.

"Ma'am. If you feel up to it, would you look in the screens?" She didn't need to. The shock wave from the exploding planet behind them rocked the craft. "What happened?"

"The Cataxi."

"They found me? What the fuck. How the hell did they do that?"

"I wouldn't know, Ma'am."

"Did they just destroy an entire planet to try to take me out?"

"Apparently."

"Damn. It's not as if I stole that many credits from them. It was just a pretty necklace, a bauble." She fingered the deep red stone that hung between her breasts.

"The Cataxi do not put a high value on Terran life. I did try to warn you, Ma'am. In their eyes you are barely worth a tenth credit."

"Still Chris, it must be more than that. I expected that assassin in the bar. It's part of the normal give and take of interstellar commerce, but it's bad form to take out a planet. Do it too often, and you can start a war."

"Ma'am if you would, I am preparing for the jump."

To say this was unusual was an understatement. Ships would cruise, sub-light, through the system. It gave the occupant's time to say extended goodbyes and deal with any last minute formalities. Besides these social reasons, performing a jump too close to a solar mass could distort the results and send the ship into uncharted space. Fortunately, most of space was empty, so as an emergency maneuver jumping blind was more or less safe. Safe, that is, if you emerged into normal space somewhere you could recognize.

"On the count of five, five, four, three, two, damn."

The ship spun out of control as colors flashed through Cynthia's mind. She passed out again from the disorientation. Finally, the ship emerged into a small solar system.

Cynthia recovered consciousness. "Chris, where the hell are we now?"

Chris, for once, was silent. "Come on, computer, damn you. Where the fuck are we?"

"Ma'am. I'm checking. It may be a question of when we are as well as where we are."

"When??"

"I'm sorry but that Cataxi shot hit us just as we were jumping. That can do unusual things to jumps, as I'm sure you're aware. I'll have a damage report shortly."

"Good."

"You will have to wait while I recalibrate. I will be offline a short time while I reboot. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Cynthia had a few anxious minutes. If Chris did not reboot, she would be adrift, somewhere in the universe, in a dead ship. His blue screen of death would spell hers as well. Unless she were extraordinarily lucky, she'd be dead in a few days without her computer. If she were lucky, the Cataxi might find her before she died. They'd make sure her death was quick. Not necessarily painless, but definitely quick.

Her anxiety was misplaced. Reliable as ever, Chris returned to life. "Ma'am, are you sitting down?"

"I'm not going to faint. What the hell is it?"

"We're home, Sol, Earth."

"Fuck. Earth? Why are the guidance screens empty? There are no beacons. Where the hell are the customs ships, the border guard?"

"I don't know. Sorry Ma'am. But that's where we are. A few days trip in normal space and then we can orbit the planet."

"I suppose we could pay home a visit. I wonder if the warrants for my arrest in New York and London have expired by now."

"Not to mention the ones from Perth, Tokyo, Beijing and Berlin. Unfortunately, we don't have a choice, Ma'am. The Cataxi shot took out the jump unit. Wherever we are, we're stuck. There are supplies and air for a few months, but that's all."

"Damn. I suppose prison is better than starving to death. Let me know when you pick up the guidance beam. I'll be in the AR suite. I want to see if I can finally seduce Mr. Darcy. Take him away from that dreadful Elizabeth Bennett."

"That Jane Austen game, again? Why don't you play something wholesome, like Battle for Mars or Kabul Shootout?"

"I like regency games. They're so relaxing."

"If you say so. You know, you'd have better luck with Darcy if you played Elizabeth rather than one of the Bingley sisters."

"What's the fun of that? They are supposed to get together. I much prefer a challenge."

"Yes, I know Ma'am. Could I make a suggestion?"

"What, Chris?"

"Could we please have an uneventful trip for a change? Maybe something less exciting than fleeing from the police halfway around the galaxy."

"I suppose so. Anyway, wake me up if anything interesting happens."

Nothing interesting happened, only if you count the lack of signals, indeed the lack of artificial radio emissions of any kind as uninteresting. Cynthia's game was interrupted a week later.

"Damn it Chris, I finally had my hands on his trouser buttons. What now?"

"I am truly sorry to disturb you Ma'am, but there are some facts that I must, however hesitantly, bring to your notice."

"What is it?"

"I've identified the year. It's 1810. We are currently parked on the reverse side of the moon, as the natives possess telescopes that could see us in orbit. I presume you don't want them drawing untoward conclusions."

"1810. Fucking A. No one down there could even begin to repair you, could they?"

"I have prepared a list of supplies that would enable my automatics to fix me." Chris flashed them through Cynthia's AR unit where they hovered in front of her instead of Darcy's face.

"I can almost certainly find the iron and copper. Might have to be a little light-fingered for that much gold, but have they even discovered selenium and titanium yet?"

Chris continued, "That is a problem, Ma'am. I suppose you could refine the ores."

"Maybe. What were you thinking of?"

"Ma'am, since you are enamored of regency games, it seemed to me that. No I can't suggest this."

"You'd like to deposit me in England while you fly off and refit somewhere?"

"Precisely Ma'am. I thought that Iceland would be a good location. It's isolated. Few people live there, and it has intense volcanic activity. Most of the materials I need should be available locally. I could use a thermocouple for power, and the heat would disguise me. It should only take a few weeks to finish with a partial refit. We can still use the com-link so you won't be alone."

"I doubt even the Cataxi can trace me here."

"Still, it is better to be prepared, Ma'am."

Cynthia thought for a few minutes, then said, "All right, Chris. I'll do it. The only alternative I can think of is setting up a farm on Mars, and that would be supremely boring."

"Very good ma'am. I'll switch the AR to conditioning mode to ensure that your English and manners are correct for the period. It will take about two weeks. In the meantime, I'll work up the vaccines you'll need."

It took all of the two weeks, but Chris finally woke Cynthia from the AR. She started to say, "What the fucking hell took you so long?", but her conditioning cut in and she said, "What took so long?"

"I'm sorry Ma'am, but you exhibited severe resistance to the training."

"F-, Indeed. What is going on?"

"Ladies of quality did not swear in the 19th century."

"Oh, dear, that's cut my vocabulary in half."

"I must say, Ma'am, it is an improvement."

Cynthia was speechless, not thoughtless, but speechless. Eventually, she found words she could use. "Chris, that isn't meant to be funny. Where do you think I should be dropped?"

"I checked the archives and then did a quick matter scan over southern England. There is a famous meteorite, 'Lord Wroxham's Stone'. High purity iron-iridium alloy. Just what I need. There is also a small Tahitian idol that is made of Black stone in his collection. Titanium ore. If you can lift a few guinea coins that will cover the gold."

"I see, anything worthwhile for me?"

"There is a mention of family jewels. A tiara or necklace possibly both. Probably they have some value on the resale market."

"In other words, a crib well worth cracking." Cynthia paused, "Chris am I always going to use this darn slang?"

"I'll remove the conditioning once we're aloft again. Though I must add, Ma'am, that it is a marked improvement in both your diction and language."

Chris merrily chirped along, "I've been having the most enjoyable time building your wardrobe."

"Wardrobe?" While solo pilots could wear anything they wanted, or indeed nothing at all, Cynthia, like the majority, favored a light recyclable coverall.

"You can't wear that. Not on this mission."

"I thought, for just a quick snatch and grab."

"It might take me several months to refit, and I don't trust my structural integrity. Can you fly?"

"I'm a dashed good pilot."

"I mean with your arms."

"Oh. I see what you mean."

"This also means that you're going to have to stop the anti-age hormones."

"What?"

"It's actually a good thing for you to go dry for a year or so. At 60 going on 16, you still can. Take a year off, enjoy human biology for a bit. Maybe fall in love, have some fun."

"I suppose you're right. But I'm not sure about that falling in love thing."

"I do feel I have to warn you that it will start your biological clock ticking again."

"Oh cripes, Not that."

"On the other hand Ma'am, maybe you will meet someone you like above half."

"Chris, I know you're romantic, but I've told you before. Humans are hard to find out on the frontiers of the empire. The closest looking aliens, the Gotha, aren't equipped either emotionally or physically for amatory activity with us, and you can't trust a Xylub in front of your eyes, let alone behind your back. As for the Cataxi, let's just say Old One-eye Jones was a better alternative."

"I suppose you're right."

"Never met anyone who could stir a flutter in my maiden breast. I hope, Chris, you can remove this insipid slang. It is already driving me up the wall."

"Yes, Ma'am, when the mission is over."

"Good. Compared with their AR versions, all the real males I've met seem terribly flat."

"This Lord Wroxham is supposed to be a handsome fellow. There's no record of his marrying anyone."

"He probably likes other men."

"Maybe, but then maybe he never met the right woman."

"Chris, stop it. I'm not in the market to be leg-shackled. A man, any man, would cramp my style."

"I'm just warning you that the hormones inhibit your emotions, and you could be in for a shock when they wear off. You will feel more emotions."

"I understand that. Do you think I'm ignorant?"

"Just forgetful, Ma'am."

Cynthia considered the alternatives. Finally, she said, "I suppose needs must. What have you put together for me?"

"First, give me your arm." Cynthia put her arm into the medical unit and flinched as a whopping dose of serum was injected. "D-, F-, What the H-. I say Chris. That stung. What all did you inject?"

"Vaccines for smallpox, diphtheria, tetanus, measles, mumps, TB, chicken pox, typhoid, yellow fever, staph, strep, influenza, polio, and the red gum. Among others."

"I hesitate to ask, but what else do you need me to do?"

"Your head please."

She placed her head into its holder in the medical unit and felt a small amount of panic as the machine, unusually, clamped it in place. Then she shouted when the unit pierced her earlobes. "Chris! I hate pierced ears. Last time I had them, it took a whole year for my lobes to heal after the earrings were ripped out in a bar fight."

"Yes, I remember. You will just have to stay out of bar fights on this trip."

"Chris, why?"

"Your earrings are the best place to conceal the main communications link. I knew if I asked you about it, you would say no."

"Can't I just use a standard issue link?"

"I'll give you one of those too, but you'll probably lose it. Like last trip."

"I didn't lose it. That d-. That assassin stole it. I blasted him and it into tiny little pieces. It left a beautiful red haze in the room and improved its color scheme no end."

"If you say so."

"Why haven't you released me?"

"Follicular stimulation. Most women had very long hair. I'm afraid yours would look too much like a man's."

When the machine eventually released her, Cynthia put her hands to her ears. "Chris these earrings feel heavy, awkward. They bounce around when I move, and they hurt."

He brought up a mirror for her and said, "Take a look. I think you'll agree they are most becoming."

She looked and then smiled at her image, "You're right, but this hair, what a bl- a mess."

"Let me show you how to arrange it." Instructions came up in the mirror and by following them with her hands and brush, Cynthia reduced her mane to a manageable and fashionable arrangement. "I suppose they had lice and fleas."

"Yes. You'll need to brush it carefully every day. Twice if you can."

Cynthia took one last look at herself. With her hair arranged she didn't look half bad. "I suppose I'd best try on my gowns."

"You'll have to take that coverall off. Ma'am."

Cynthia felt surprisingly bashful. While Chris was conventionally a 'he', he was just a computer program and had seen it all before. They'd cruised the galaxy together for thirty years, causing mayhem while spreading the Terran sphere of influence and enriching themselves in the process. There wasn't much of her that he hadn't treated for some ailment or another. Even with real males at the Academy, she'd never had a trouble during showers. Well, at least not after they started on the anti-aging drug regime with its tendency to damp emotions. Still, she hesitated and said, "Is this the conditioning?"

"I think so. If you'd like, I'll disable my visual."

"No." She took a deep breath, then she grabbed the suit at her neck and ripped. It came off cleanly, and she stuffed the remains into the recycling unit.

"All right. Show me how I dress."

A few minutes later, properly stayed, covered with muslin, and adorned with a green Spencer, she examined herself in the mirror. The results took her breath away.

"I say Chris, you do have taste. I didn't think I could look like this. I almost look beautiful. Pity I didn't let you gown me in the AR. I'd have been in Darcy's pants in no time."

"There's more to life than getting into a man's pants, Ma'am."

"There's always stealing, murder and mayhem. Just the usual Saturday night at the docks."

Chris's silence was deafening.

"I'm sorry Chris, I didn't mean to shock you, but you know me."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"Speaking of pants, you forgot something. It's windy down there."

"It's supposed to be. You'll just have to be careful."

"I will be. Trust me. I don't want to give any of the natives a show. It was hard enough getting undressed in front of you, old friend."

"I thought, Ma'am that you could leave the Cataxi gem here and wear this string of pearls. It goes with the earrings."

"Why not both?"

"I'm not sure that gem is safe for you to wear all the time."

"You scanned it, didn't you?"

"I did, and I didn't find anything. It's just that things don't add up in what I found. I'd feel better if you didn't wear it."

"Tough. I like it."

"As you wish, Ma'am. The rest of your kit, other than a couple of changes of gown is the regulation issue. A false bottom in your bag. The communicator and scanner are disguised as a diary. Open it correctly, and I'll be there. I've added a discreet solar charger. It is configured to look like a ladies' fan."

"No blaster?"

"Ma'am, I only thought you could get in trouble with it."

Cynthia fought down the urge to scream at her ship. Finally, she said, "You know I **_never ever, ever_** go planet-side without a blaster. Might as well be naked."

"Yes Ma'am. I'll supply one. It will be suitably disguised, but it will be a small limited power one."

"Since I think they're still using flintlocks that will be fine. What is the rest of the plan?"

"I'll insert you near where Lord Wroxham will be driving in the morning. Then you can set up a hologram of a wrecked carriage to attract his attention. I'll give you a letter of introduction, which he'll have difficulty refusing."

"Clever. Is there a plan B?"

"You can always present yourself at his front door."

"That's rather lame. Let's hope the first works."

"It will. Now you will need some sleep before I drop you."

Early morning local time, Chris silently halted above a field of corn in Wiltshire. Cynthia clambered down carrying a large traveling bag. She waved, and Chris silently retreated into hiding.

Cynthia sat beside the road and waited for Lord Wroxham. By mid-morning the sun was shining and the birds were chirping while the bees buzzed in the flowering hedge on the other side or the road. She found, that unlike the AR version, Regency life was on the boring side. A brief buzzing in her left earring alerted her. It was Chris, "He's coming. Time to deploy the lure." She tossed a small pebble to the side and pressed a button on her control box. The hologram of a broken carriage appeared beside her. It looked real enough, as long as you didn't try to sit in it. Chris continued, "Remember your cover story, and a few tears wouldn't hurt."

"I'm almost bored to tears already."

A carriage, drawn by an elegantly matched set of four horses, with a ducal crest on its side appeared, passed her, then stopped. The lure worked. She quietly told Chris, "Here goes."

Lord James Alistair Marion George Wroxham, Duke of Tenby, was bored. He, his sister the Honorable Alice Sarah Jane Felicity Wroxham and his school friend the Honorable Frederick Thomas Alverston were riding in his carriage along the road from London to one of his many country estates. This one, one of his favorites, Carling Hall, was in Wiltshire. They planned to take a few weeks or maybe a month on a repairing lease in the country and then they would drive to Brighton to enjoy the summer social season. Alice had insisted on inviting his friend to come with them, and Mr. Alverston, being at loose ends, agreed.

Lord Wroxham exclaimed, "Nothing exciting ever happens." Had he not been riding with his impressionable younger sister, he would have explained how, for his sixth consecutive season in London, the only females who were ever attracted to him were far more interested in his wealth than his person. It made them so boringly predictable and mind-bogglingly vapid and dull. At least the muslin company that supplied his baser needs were business-like about it. He found their fee-for-service basis eminently satisfactory, at least for the short term.

Frederick or Freddy as his friends called him, replied, "What do you mean. Aren't I good company?"

"Freddy, I know what you're going to say and do, almost before you do it."

"If you say so. Didn't think I was that boring." He peered out of the carriage window and spied a broken Barouche with a pretty young lady sitting in front of it. "I say, James old boy, here's something you wouldn't expect." He thumped on the carriage and asked the postilions to halt.

"I'm sorry Freddy, but the number of females who have tried anything to attract my attention is beyond counting."

"This one is dashed pretty. If you don't want to talk to her, I'll give her a shot."

Alice was shocked and said, "Mr. Alverston! Please consider my feelings."

"Your feelings, Miss Wroxham?" She collapsed into a confusion of blushing, which Freddy didn't seem to notice.

Lord Wroxham critically examined the woman sitting outside. She was sitting by the road on her bag and looking up at his carriage. She was dressed in the correct fashion for a young chit. There was certainly nothing about her dress that indicated anything other than a young lady of taste and refinement stuck in a distressing situation. After giving her what he hoped would be a disquieting examination, he said, "What seems to be the trouble?"

"My carriage lost a wheel and my groom has gone off to find a wheelwright."

"I see. Where are you bound?"

"I have a letter of introduction to Lord Wroxham. I was hoping to visit him at his country estate."

Wroxham gave Freddy a significant glance as if to say 'I told you so.' He then asked the young female, "Do you know Lord Wroxham?"

"I'm sorry but I don't. My guardian recommended me to him, but I'm sorry to say I wouldn't know him from you." She smiled at him. He noticed that she had an unusually lovely smile. He started to return it. Unfortunately, long and bitter experience had taught him that unusually lovely smiles were usually closely coupled with unusually avaricious hearts. So he wiped his smile off his face and frowned at her.

"We happen to be going that way. Would you desire a ride?"

"If you could," Cynthia thought "That would be fucking fantastic." Instead, she said, "I would most appreciate it. Could we leave a note at the next posting-house for my groom?"

"Of course, but that won't be necessary. We'll be there shortly."

Cynthia thought, "Of course arsehole, why did you think I set it up here?" but said, "That would be most satisfactory." She touched her right earring and quietly muttered, "Chris, I am most displeased with this conditioning." Her left earring replied, "Fuckin' A Ma'am." Then it chuckled and continued, "I suppose you have made contact?"

"Yes." Cynthia couldn't add the rest of her comment.

One of Lord Wroxham's footmen dismounted from the back of the carriage and took Cynthia's baggage to add to the load in the boot. She resisted at first, and then threw it to him. He staggered under the weight. "I'm sorry, I thought I packed light." Lord Wroxham opened the door for her. He said, "Please miss. I'm sorry that I didn't catch your name."

"I'm not surprised that you didn't as I didn't tell it to you. I'm Miss Cynthia." She paused to remember her cover name, and then added, "Miss Cynthia Morris."

"Miss Morris, I'd be overjoyed to escort you to Lord Wroxham's estate."

"Thank you." She paused and studied his face, "Are you Lord Wroxham? I have a letter of introduction from my guardian to you. Unfortunately, it is in my bag. You look better than your portrait."

"Dear Miss Morris. I have the misfortune to be him."

"The misfortune to be one of the richest men in England?"

"It is. So many refined young ladies try all sorts of undignified tricks to be introduced to me. It gets exceedingly tedious. I do hope you're not one of them."

"Me?" Cynthia thought, "Hell no, shithead. Not if you were the last man in England. There is no God damn fucking way I'm getting entangled with a native on this godforsaken backward fucking planet." but said, "No my lord. Of course I'm not pulling a trick on you. I was commended into your care by my guardian. I have plenty of wealth of my own."

"If you say so."

Freddy added, "I must say James, cracking up a perfectly good carriage to draw your attention would be a bit extreme."

"Freddy, many of the attempts young ladies have used to draw my favor have been almost as brazen. But it is usually a turned ankle or something equally genteel and boring."

Cynthia hoisted herself into the cab without waiting for the footman to assist her. She started to sit next to Lord Wroxham, but then her conditioning set in and she switched to sit next to his sister. She blushed, something she hadn't done in years, and said, "Thank you very much Lord Wroxham. I don't know what I'd do without your help."

Lord Wroxham thumped on his carriage and told the postilions "Drive on!"

The inside of the carriage was plush with silk covered pillows and soft seats. Cynthia looked at it in amazement. Her AR training had led her to believe that all carriages had Spartan hard wooden seats that would inevitably result in an uncomfortable ride. Noticing Miss Morris's amazement, Alice said, "Miss Morris, have you ever been in such an elegant carriage as this?"

"Not in a carriage. Once I had a rescue mission, from a harem. The harem was almost as elegant as your carriage. The trip paid well too. It was on." She stopped, aware that she was going to tell them about the Xylub homeworld, Xyluberth. She backtracked quickly, "I'm sorry, I'm rattling on about what I imagined the harem from a novel to be."

Lord Wroxham stared at her and said, "Miss Morris, a rescue mission from a harem. You must have quite an imagination." His smile belied his stern words. Despite her resolution to have nothing to do with a native, she automatically returned it. Indeed, she found it hard not to.

"My governess said I read too many novels for my own good. I begin to think she was right."

Alice said, "Miss Morris, can I call you Cynthia? I love novels. Have you read Mrs. Radcliffe's latest, ' _The Italian_ '?"

"I haven't had the pleasure."

Cynthia said, "I should love to read it with you. However, if we're to start on it tonight I'll need to rest. It's been an exhausting day," and promptly fell asleep to the swaying of the carriage in the warm early summer air.

Freddy remarked to his host, "This chit, at least, doesn't seem interested in you, James. Dashed funny way to make an impression, if you ask me."

Lord Wroxham replied, "Freddy, I just hope she isn't the standing budge for some gang of cracksmen. She's dashed smoky."

Alice said, "How exciting! A criminal in our house. What are you going to do James?"

"I'll set one of the maids to keep a close eye on her. She'll soon enough trip up if she's playing a game. In the meanwhile, I'll check her letter of introduction. She might just be an overly imaginative young female."

"That would be a shame, so commonplace."

Cynthia opened an eye and said, "Whatever I am, it is not commonplace."

Cynthia the Invincible combines my two loves, Regency or historical romance with science fiction. I tried imagining a future world, along the lines of Larry Nivens', with an expanding human 'Terran Empire' and a push back from other species. Setting it in the Regency allowed me to use the historical trivia I've saved up researching background for other books. The Prince Regent himself, in all his enormous glory, all three hundred (or more) pounds of it, shows up in part of the book. His antics, other than playing strip-piquet with a marked deck, are taken from real events. Cynthia, herself, is an example of how we would expand. She's an individual explorer on the frontier between human and other spaces. Recruited at a young age for 'the academy', she has taken drugs that keep her alive during the long times involved in space travel – even with a jump or warp drive. Unfortunately, these drugs have the side effect of damping her emotions. So even though as a "bally space pirate" (her words) she an experienced and wild creature who has sampled deeply of life's pleasures, she's also in many ways inexperienced and naïve. Her, somewhat accidental, sojourn in Regency England forces her to learn what it really means to be human.

Buy Cynthia the Invincible

A mild-mannered professor of computer science in real-life, I remove my glasses in the evening to become, well, a mild-mannered author in my alternate reality.

I mostly write sweet romantic fiction, although with an occasional science-fiction or paranormal angle thrown in. I have interests in history, mathematics (D'oh), and cryptography. I'm also something of an Anglophile, and know that country pretty well. In addition to writing, research, and more writing, I volunteer with the scouts. I'm something of a nature-nut, enjoying long walks in the country with almost ultra-light gear, boating, and identifying wildlife.

Connect with Amelia: Website | Facebook | Twitter

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 and Amazing Stories SciFi Romance 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_

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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.

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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...

You can find the SFR Brigade here:

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