 
# Portals: Volume Five

### Your Gateway to Science Fiction Romance

## Eva Caye

## Tracy Cooper-Posey

## Kyndra Hatch

## S.A. Hoag

## Felicity Kates

## Corrina Lawson

## Tess Rider

## Veronica Scott

## Seven Steps

## Carol Van Natta

### Contents

About This Collection

Copyright

Dignity by Eva Caye

About Dignity

Excerpt of Dignity

Faring Soul by Tracy Cooper-Posy

About Faring Soul

Excerpt of Faring Soul

Aliens in the Barn by Kyndra Hatch

About Aliens in the Barn

Excerpt of Aliens in the Barn

The Vista by S. A. Hoag

About The Vista

Excerpt of The Vista

Project Hell by Felicity Kates

About Project Hell

Excerpt of Project Hell

Curse of the Brimstone Contract by Corrina Lawson

About Curse of the Brimstone Contract

Excerpt from Curse of the Brimstone Contract

Bring Me to Ruin by Tess Rider

About Bring Me to Ruin

Excerpt of Bring Me to Ruin

Star Cruise: Marooned by Veronica Scott

About Star Cruise: Marooned

Excerpt of Star Cruise: Marooned

The Slave Planet by Seven Steps

About The Slave Planet

Excerpt of The Slave Planet

Overload Flux by Carol Van Natta

About Overload Flux

Excerpt of Overload Flux

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.

DIGNITY, Copyright © Eva Caye 2012. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of the author.

FARING SOUL, Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey, 2015. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

ALIENS IN THE BARN, Copyright © 2016 by J.J. McLeod. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

THE VISTA Copyright Copyright © 2015 by S. A. Hoag All rights reserved. Used with permission of the author.

PROJECT HELL - PART ONE, Copyright © 2016 Felicity Kates. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of the author.

THE CURSE OF THE BRIMSTONE CONTRACT, Copyright © Samhain Publishing, 2014. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of the author.

"BRING ME TO RUIN," Copyright © Therese Rittenbach 2016. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of the author.

STAR CRUISE: MAROONED Copyright © Jean D Walker 2015 All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

THE SLAVE PLANET, Copyright © Seven Steps 2016. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author. Just put it in the comments.

OVERLOAD FLUX, Copyright © 2014 by Carol Van Natta. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

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

ISBN: 978-1-942583-37-0

 Created with Vellum 

# Dignity by Eva Caye
# About Dignity

What will the greatest ruling family in the history of the galaxy be like?

Lady Felicia Sorensen, a brilliant microengineering student, finds herself pressured to date Emperor Victor Sinclair, who has fallen madly in love with her. Despite being showered with extravagant gowns and attention, she longs for a fascinating life as a scientist, instead of the stressful and dangerous destiny of an Empress.

The social pressures of being the Emperor's Betrothed, from gossip and manipulation to an assassination attempt, cause her to weigh her love for him against her personal goal, to do research in her own lab someday. How can Lady Felicia follow her dream while still bending to the political necessities of a high elevation?

This science fiction romance is the first of ten books in the _To Be Sinclair_ series. A few scenes describe sexually explicit behavior.

# Excerpt of Dignity

**Chapter One**

* * *

Felicia swung wide around the _We Want Work_ protestors who had been making the tree-lined field across from the sorority their home base lately. She saw a couple of students from her summer art appreciation class in the chanting throng. If they wanted to work, why were they taking art appreciation instead of something practical, like finance? And why were they out here protesting instead of studying? If this really was all about interstellar trade, why were some wearing galactic fashions? Why protest on campus anyway, instead of outside the stores featuring galactic products? The chant changed and grew louder.

If her room were at the front of the sorority, she could build a subsonic scatterbox that would drive all these protestors away in about five minutes. Estimating the size of the field, she mentally calculated the parameters for the scatterfield so it would exclusively target the range of protestors and no further. She smiled to herself, imagining the horde all individually finding excuses why they suddenly had to leave.

Her smile disappeared when she thought about how powerless these people must be feeling in the first place. Who was she to deny them their right to assemble? She should really cultivate more empathy for the people she intended to help someday. Just because she thought of technology almost to the exclusion of everything else didn't mean she had to be heartless about it.

The owner of the sleek black armored ground car in the circular driveway of the Brighton Sorority for Royal Ladies must be High Royal, but Felicia wondered who it could possibly be when Cynthia Renois told her she was wanted in the parlor. After knocking and being bid to enter, she slowed her pace in astonishment and set her book bag on a small side table, eyes wide as the heavy door to the parlor snicked shut behind her.

The high sheen of the off-white mesatree paneling and its uniquely beveled surfaces reflected the brilliant lighting of several stained-glass lamps perched on simple pedestals, giving the sensation that one was in the center of a wild confluence of creamy rainbows. From her usual violet-and-gold brocade seat in the central conversational grouping of heavily-carved, overstuffed sets of couches, settees, and arm chairs, Lady Margaret Brighton, by lifting a gentle hand, invited her guest to rise with her to greet Felicia.

"Lady Darya, this is Lady Felicia Sorensen, Lord Robert's second daughter. Felicia, please greet Lady Darya Cheval, the Emperor's social director." Not to mention the most beautiful, graceful, well-known lady on the planet.

"How do you do, Lady Cheval?" Felicia shook hands warmly, a genuine smile on her face, wondering why she was receiving this high honor. In her mid-fifties, with lovely blonde hair swept up into cascading curls and wearing an exquisite calf-length, wine-red dress embroidered with angular patterns in gold, Lady Cheval was every young lady's role model, the ideal of feminine elegance and accomplishment. Felicia felt dowdy in her presence with her long, mousy hair completely unbound, wearing her usual campus garb of simple skirt, blouse, and vest, and with no make-up or jewelry on to display her own High Royal stature.

"Very well, Lady Felicia, and you may call me Lady Darya. Margaret says you're an excellent student. Please be seated." Lady Darya indicated a place on the gold silk settee beside her.

After a few social pleasantries about Felicia's studies and the welfare of her family, Lady Darya got to the point. "The Emperor is having a ball in ten days. Some of the ladies he has recently escorted haven't been particularly keen company for him, so he asked me to see if I could find a young lady with more composure. I thought immediately of Margaret," she smiled warmly in Lady Brighton's direction, "and Margaret has referred you to me. Would you be interested in being his dinner partner for the evening?"

A few scurrilous thoughts quickly passed through Felicia's mind, the most polite being that things must be pretty desperate for the Emperor if he was resorting to dating ladies ten years his junior. Lady Brighton's training won through, however, as Felicia agreed to the idea with some apprehension. "It would be an honor, but my current wardrobe doesn't include any gowns suitable for a ball."

"That's a very slight matter, indeed. I shall send someone to you this week to fit you for an appropriate gown. I know your father is frugal, as befits a duke's comptroller, and that you're a student, so you won't be expected to wear something elaborate, but it shall all be worked out sensibly. Have you been to any of the balls at the Palace before?"

"Two years ago, when I was eighteen, I went to the Emperor's Birthday Celebration in my uncle's entourage. It was certainly exciting, and I enjoyed myself quite a bit, but I did have classes the next day. And, of course, Lady Brighton has a 26:00 curfew during the week." How else could she politely say it was a mad crush of people, with men of all ages slinging her around the dance floor until she begged Duke Sorensen to have one of his watchmen take her away well before curfew? She had thrown those high heels away when she returned to the sorority and could barely walk to class the rest of the week without taking a painkiller first.

"Superb, then you know what to expect. We shall have a Palace ground car pick you up around 19:30. You'll have a chance to chat with the Emperor before you enter the reception hall, and dinner will start at 20:00. If you ask to leave before the demi, you should make it back before 01:00," she advised, referring to the 28 minutes at midnight between the end of the 26:00 hour and 01:00. "That's your weekend curfew, yes?"

Lady Darya gave her a pleasant smile when Felicia agreed to the arrangements. Lady Brighton, greying brown hair loosely twisted back from her elfin features, smiled as beatifically as an angel as Felicia thanked Lady Darya quite properly, excused herself with reasonable grace, and picked up the book bag she had abandoned at the door as she left.

She headed to her room to freshen up before dinner, hiking up the narrow servants' stairs beside the parlor, which partially blocked the access to that wing's unused second-floor rooms. Her room was right beside the stairwell, its window facing the back courtyard.

Lady Brighton had plenty of room for more Royal ladies, though most Royals went to universities sponsored by the duchies in which they lived. But the Imperial University of Sinclair Demesne's Urban District sponsored one of the most comprehensive physics research laboratories on the planet, although the newer Imperial Polytechnic University on the heteronymous planet Rendel was the one Felicia had originally wanted to attend. Since she was High Royal, her parents not only wanted her to stay on Sinclair Demesne proper, they wanted her to have instruction in the proprieties expected of ladies of her stature, as well as chaperonage.

Lady Brighton's Sorority offered several other amenities besides being right next to campus. As she spent a few moments to set out her palm pad, book-disks, and computer on her desk, Felicia was also thankful she didn't have to do any cleaning, laundry, or cooking so she could use all her spare time studying. This was the first semester in which she was the only female in all her advanced science classes, though her classmates seemed not to notice or care.

She assumed it was because she was High Royal and they were commoners; she was simply grateful they treated her with civility and worked with her as an intellectual equal. The last thing she wanted was to have to deal with social or emotional issues, because she was bound and determined to earn an academic degree with the highest marks and fewest distractions possible. Washing up quickly, she descended the servants' stairs just as the call to dinner was made.

Although she had returned to the sorority only an hour before dinner, the gossip had already spread that the Emperor would be escorting Felicia to the next ball, so her excited sorority sisters surrounded her when she entered the dining room. Unsure what to say to them, she promptly took her seat among the juniors. Seating wasn't arranged by social stature; Lady Brighton sat at the head of the table with the newest girls beside her and the seniors at the far end. At a further barrage of questions, Felicia kept her answers brief, repeating the few facts everyone obviously already knew about the upcoming event, managing an occasional bite.

This didn't seem to disturb the young ladies one bit; amusing as it was to hear them wax poetic about this man or that, tonight's conversations were spectacular in scope. They discussed the Emperor's physical features exhaustively, from his broad shoulders, black hair, and green eyes, to the most famous picture taken of him several years earlier, in which he controlled a rearing horse as a herd of hammerhogs suddenly tore out of the nearby forest into a clearing he and his foster-brother were exploring in the Adamov Expanse.

With three Sentinels in the background fanning their pulse pistols at the raging, meter-high, rhino-like native scavengers nearly to them, the profile photo showed the shirtless Emperor clad in cool determination, standing high in his stirrups and tugging one of the stallion's reins sharply to steer it away from the clouds of dirt and debris the cloven-hoofed hammerhogs were trampling up in their passage. Felicia remembered seeing the photo, wondering who had the gall to take it when they should have been protecting the Emperor or, like him, sensibly fleeing the scene. She did agree with the ladies that it showed him to be powerful, courageous, and brilliant, so the conversation next evolved into his manliness.

His reputation for dating a new lady at every event resulted in heavy speculation as to how many of those ladies were more than just dance partners, though only two girls claimed to know someone he had dated, both labeling him a perfect gentleman. A few heartfelt condolences were aimed Felicia's way that this wasn't going to be his glamorous Birthday Celebration next month on October 7th, but just a regular ball, the purpose of which was unknown to all gathered. "Have you even gone out on a date recently?" Janine Masterson ultimately asked.

"No, I've been too busy. My classes are very tough this year." Felicia managed to keep a straight face; she had never been on a date, and if she had she certainly wouldn't gossip about it high and low like Janine and several others always did. "I'm not even sure what one would say to the Emperor. You never really hear about his hobbies, for example. Does anyone have any ideas?"

Left to their imaginations, her sorority sisters gave her reams of advice while Felicia nodded acknowledgments and finally got to finish her meal. Lady Brighton smiled at all comments; at least they had been spared etiquette lessons tonight.

Fleeing to her room to escape the attention, she then had to listen to her peppy blonde freshman roommate, Renee Knightley, pace and burble at her through an hour of homework before plopping onto her bed. "Honestly, Felicia, don't you think he's _dreamy_?"

"No, I don't. I think he's probably a very hardworking man who doesn't have time to do dreamy, romantic things, which is why he has to get his social director to line up dates for him. I think it's pitiful."

Felicia went back to her circuit design in blissful silence. Her quiz tomorrow was to design a master circuit that included four of ten surprise subroutines out of a list of fifty. She checked several subroutines off her list as Renee left, pouting in disappointment.

"You look lovely, Felicia!" Lady Brighton circled her twice, checking for possible flaws.

Knowing herself to be physically average, and accustomed to thinking of many current styles of face paint as false advertisement if not outright deception, Felicia had insisted on no more than light makeup with her delicate gold jewelry. However, she was pleased with how the stylist had looped and pinned her hair well back from her face with her great-grandmother's elaborate gold combs, leaving the rest in long, flowing waves spilling over her shoulders and back.

The slender silk gown, a rich green with simple yet distinctive gold and silver embroidery around the neck and hemline, was elaborated more fully on the sleeves and bodice in a pattern vaguely reminiscent of falling leaves, perfectly calculated for the time of year. Felicia had also insisted that the fashioner provide dancing slippers instead of the dreadfully-designed stilts she had dragged along with her. Why should one pretend to be taller than one was, anyway? 164 centimeters was a decent height. Why would people think one's height mattered?

Lady Brighton proceeded to load her with advice, pointers, tips, and reminders of a thousand bits of protocol she taught every year at the dinner table. Felicia estimated the good Lady got through one-third of a semester's worth of information from the time they left her second-story room to when the dark cerulean Sinclair-blue Palace ground car's door whooshed shut behind her. The Sinclair watchman who closed it took the driver's seat, and she gazed out the silvered windows at the passing scenery.

Although it was only the second time she had been to the Palace, Felicia was impressed once again by the workmanship of their colonial ancestors. The Great Portal to the Palace grounds consisted of four enormous guardhouse-and-sensor-studded stone arches in the six-story, force-shielded blue granite walls that surrounded some sixty hectares of exquisite gardens, arboretums, statuaries, and the Imperial cemetery.

The Palace, a largely flat-topped square centered therein, had four long wings rising four stories, with air car landing pads centered between the attics at each wing end, and old-fashioned gun turrets with modern gravitic blasters atop the four rounded corner towers. Built in a stark, utilitarian architectural style, its only real saving grace was the luminescent quality of the light grey adamantine granite, a material native to Sinclair Demesne, unique for its high concentration of quartz crystals. The outer walls had few decorative elements and were left mostly unpolished, reflecting thousands of rays of light in a subtle glow. Only a few details of the Palace, such as the framing of the windows and the Main Entrance, shone with polished adamantine granite, beveled out to blind any possible intruder.

Felicia was driven to a less-conspicuous eastern entrance of the Palace than the western Main Entrance, though the car was still fourth in line to offload her. A watchman showed her to a small receiving room a short way in the opposite direction from the one in which the other discreet guests were heading. The white walls were nearly bald, sporting only one painting of an ocean scene, and the thin blue patterned carpet emphasized the stiff, over-carved silk settee and delicate matching chairs, all in the fading glory of some long-ago time when an Empress actually existed in the Palace to attend to such details. Felicia sat cautiously upon the settee, which faced the door.

Two Sentinel agents cat-footed in without knocking and took places to either side. Victor Sinclair, Emperor of the Sinclair Demesnes, absently strode in with his head down and a slight frown before he looked up and realized she was already in the room. He paused, pasted a meager smile on his face, and held out his hand as she rose.

"Good evening, Your Majesty." Felicia gave him her own tenuous smile. Tall, perhaps 185 centimeters, with black hair reminiscent of a grown-out military style, but pale under his olive complexion, he was handsome, to be sure. His brilliant green eyes and firm hand grip did draw her attention, though he seemed distracted by undoubtedly serious issues and palpably unenthused at the thought of meeting yet another Royal lady.

"Good evening, Lady Felicia. I'm certain you know I've met many of your family members before, but I don't recall meeting you or your parents. They still reside in the Sorensen Duchy, do they not?" His mellow baritone seemed to be covering an underlying exhaustion, and his courtesies were as automatic as breathing, with very little thought behind them.

"Yes, they are homebodies, in a sense. Father works as the duchy comptroller for Uncle Paul. He's the third son of Grandfather's second wife, so though I call Duke Sorensen my uncle, he is my half-uncle. We don't go to many parties in the duchy, which is why my parents arranged for me to live at Lady Margaret Brighton's sorority at University for tutelage."

"Ah, yes, the good Lady is well-versed in all matters of social interaction. I'm sure you learn a lot there." His smile grew firmer and his eyes more distant as if recalling a specific memorable situation, but he gave no indication he was inclined to mention one.

If the banality of this meeting didn't lighten up soon, she was going to fall asleep on her feet. She decided she might as well make a bit of a shock-statement to try to liven things up.

"Lady Darya is making you do this, isn't she?" The most blatant rumor held that the Emperor was homosexual, but if that were true, why was he never associated with a particular man, yet with hundreds of ladies? Felicia didn't care one way or the other. It would truly only be a major scandal if he refused to produce an Imperial Heir someday, which could be accomplished in a number of ways. Still, she wondered why he was dating unknown ladies as his 31st birthday approached.

His eyebrows rose sharply, then his eyes sparkled as he emitted a brief huff of surprise and looked at her with great interest. "Yes, she is. I'm certain she thinks it's all for the best reasons, politically as well as socially, but it does get rather, ah, strained at times."

"She mentioned your last few dates weren't particularly _keen_. I wondered what she meant by that."

He vented a light snort; a wry smile winked a few times as his eyes focused directly on hers. "I admit I don't find discussion of ladies' fashions particularly interesting."

"Good, because I know almost nothing about them."

His smile grew more genuine and his true charm came out. "I asked her to find me a lady who at least has some greater interest in the world outside that of a traditional Royal feminine mindset. If I'm not mistaken, she has obliged me in this." He placed his hand over his heart and gave her a short bow, indicating the door with his other hand. "Shall we head to the reception hall?" Felicia smiled and led the way to the door.

They happened to join the line of guests with a decent gap of privacy between couples. He explained that the corridor ran through the middle of the East Wing, dodged to one windowed side with a view of the courtyard, continued through the western promenade of the ballroom, passed the well-hidden main kitchens, and turned into the South Wing holding the Reception Hall across from the Grand Dining Hall. Given the length of the walk, Felicia felt obliged to converse with him.

Deciding she would rather know than make a social gaffe, she probed. "May I ask a couple of questions on protocol the good Lady hasn't mentioned yet? They are, I suppose, ah, rather specific to our situation."

"By all means." He turned his face slightly to look at her.

"At what point, if at all, am I supposed to hold onto your arm?"

"At any point. Some ladies seem to think they need my support; some seem to think I need their support. For my part, it doesn't really matter at all."

"Okay, next question. When we're at the dance and someone comes up to talk to you, indicating they wish to do so privately, should I stay where I am, alone, or should I go engage other people in conversation?"

"I like that question. I prefer that you stay put, and if people come to talk to you, that's fine. I'll try to indicate if it seems it will be a long conversation. Or, for example, if I raise my hand toward you slightly as if to take your hand, it means, 'Please, come get me out of this political discussion I'd rather save for next week's meeting!' and you can come to my rescue." He smiled quite impishly, surprising a chuckle out of her.

She realized she might actually enjoy herself if it took so little effort on her part to draw him out. She asked a few questions about activities held in the courtyard while they traversed the ballroom, still well-lit by the sun just over the roof of the distant West Wing.

After they turned into the South Wing, approached the reception hall, bypassed some of the couples in line to be announced, and slipped past a Sentinel into a narrow hall to access a side entrance, he murmured to her, "Oh, I forgot to say, it's traditional for you to hold onto my arm when we're announced to the room." He held out his arm; when she took his elbow, he covered her hand with his own, pressing it warmly. Once they set foot in the private Imperial entrance, sensors were triggered to open the door and cue spotlights to their position.

Felicia stepped into the brightly-lit reception hall a fraction behind him as the herald declared their names. She didn't bother to put on any airs or dissemble with a false smile, since she wasn't sure what she was feeling, although she knew it was supposed to feel like a high honor. If anything, as they strolled through the crowd, the smiling and bowing of others toward the Emperor made her feel more like a nobody than if she had entered the room on her own.

When a servant offered a tray of drinks, she let go of his arm to take one and glance about. Not that anyone here would know her, of course, unless Duke and Duchess Sorensen were present. After numerous smiles and greetings to other people, the Emperor turned just in time to catch her emitting a sigh of resignation. "Come now, it isn't all that bad, is it?" He touched her elbow.

"No, I just haven't experienced the fish-out-of-water feeling for quite a while. That's all."

"Do you enjoy University, then?" He gave her his entire attention now.

"Immensely. Back at home, I was the fish out of water all the time for preferring intellectual pursuits instead of, say, embroidery."

"What do you study?"

"I've studied a lot of different subjects, but my strengths are in the sciences."

The Emperor's brows rose as his mouth parted; his subsequent smile warmed her heart as much as his luminous eyes. "That's remarkable, actually. I can see why you feel like a fish out of water at home, certainly, but the science departments at the University are hardly crowded with women. I'd think you would feel just as uncomfortable there."

Felicia smiled broadly, though she shook her head. "Not at all. The sciences are pure subjects, easy to understand, fascinating in depth and complexity. I feel like scientists communicate on a level above regular human interaction specifically because they deal with data. Hard, concrete facts. Not things like social mores or norms or, heaven forbid, traditions that have outlived their original purposes."

His quiet chuckle and twinkling eyes set her quite at ease. "That's an excellent observation, my lady. Have you picked a specialty yet?"

"I'm studying electrical engineering, but there are really so many things to learn. I take courses during the summers to fit in everything I want to know. I could graduate by the end of this year, although it's only my third year, but I'll be taking a fourth year so I can hopefully work in some graduate-level courses." She looked him confidently in the eye. "I plan to work at the Imperial Science Institute someday."

Even though he laughed loud at that, she knew it wasn't in mockery. The glorious sound thrilled her, for she wasn't known for making people laugh; to think someone was so refreshingly pleased with something she had said went straight to the pleasure centers of her brain. She smiled drolly when she noticed people staring at them in surprise.

When he came out of his laughter, he gave a little sigh with his grin. "I suppose we should move to dinner before I make a spectacle of myself. Although the people at these balls are supposed to be friends, relatives, cronies and suchlike, few of them manage to make me lose my composure like that. Shall we lead the way?" He glanced at the majordomo, then put his hand at the small of her back and nodded toward the dining room, visible through the reception room's main entrance.

Dining at the High Table was somewhat intimidating, but Felicia soon realized Lady Brighton had prepared her very well for such things, demanding perfection at the table. The Emperor preferred to sit in the central position, an ancient seating arrangement allowing him to converse with as many guests as possible. She answered the few questions directed her way politely and listened attentively, but she made no effort to start a conversation. This was a ball in honor of some of the high-powered planetary bankers and business leaders, so she feigned interest with her most polite social expression.

Well into the third course, the five people across from her were engaged in a discussion with Lady Darya and another man, sitting at the Emperor's other side, obviously trying to impress him and each other with their conversational repartee. At a bit of a lull, the Emperor turned to her. "What do you think?"

"I have no opinion about the matter."

His perplexed expression was reflected in the faces of all the other listeners. "How so?"

"I have almost no true data from which to work." She ate a final bite of salmon. Glancing around, she realized the Emperor had just thrown her a golden opportunity to shine for these people. She smiled to herself, though she tried to keep her face serene.

"As far as I can tell, there were only two actual sets of information given during the conversation. First, Duke Breton mentioned some of the contents of the colonel's report, the raw data as pertains to the argument. Duke Breton's viewing of it is, therefore, first-hand information. The second set of data presented was an eyewitness account of the meeting between the Minister of Finance and the consortium that came to the capital to present its case." She nodded over to the gentleman from whom that information came.

"The rest of the statements made were not primary evidence. You may certainly know each other well enough to judge the likelihood of the truth or, ah, shades of truth that might exist, simply because you trust the judgment of the person who spoke them, but I am new here and don't know which of the statements reflected true information.

"What they _sounded_ like are a rumor that the consortium had actual power, which is, of course, hard enough to prove, a second rumor that the colonel isn't in the habit of writing his own reports, supposition that the consortium doesn't have the intellect to take the report seriously, and innuendo that that particular subsidy supervisor was known to be an embezzler."

She picked up her glass. "All the other statements made seemed to be trying to make sense of those four unsound pieces of information, and most seemed to have been made for the sake of amusing people at the table. So how could I possibly derive a solid opinion about the topic?"

She sipped her wine. A few people looked like she had spoiled their fun, but a couple nodded to her in apparent appreciation. One asked, "What do you do of a day, Lady Felicia?"

"I study electrical engineering at the Imperial University. Although I do love to delve into all the sciences."

The gentleman, perhaps sixty years of age, shook his head as if bewildered. "Why would a lady take on such studies as that? Don't you look to a future as mistress of your own household?"

Felicia laughed softly and shook her head in turn. "I can't imagine such duties would satisfy my need to understand the nature of the universe, nor would they provide me with the tools to create devices to improve the lot of mankind."

You can buy _Dignity_ or find more information here.

Why do I write? To perpetuate my most abiding principles: that women are as tough as men; pure 'good' vs 'evil' is extremely rare; both science and romance are behind everything we do; and you should never give up hope because there is always a way. "Know thyself" and "The unexamined life is not worth living" by Socrates are the two greatest maxims ever, so I strive for self-improvement and am always pushing my limits.

I wrote the _To Be Sinclair_ series because I want girls to be unafraid to pursue science in college and in real life, because they have Felice Sinclair as their intellectual role model. She can become someone whose influence goes beyond her family and friends, to inspire the galaxy with her wealth of intelligence and creativity. If a smart lady is given the power to follow her dreams, there is nothing she cannot accomplish.

I especially hope to inspire such a girl's family and friends! Don't stand in her way, don't tell her she can't (for whatever reason), and support her mentally and emotionally.

Eva Caye, author of the _To Be Sinclair_ series, can build a rocket stove, tat lace, handle a gun, design book covers and permaculture garden plans, and teach teenagers critical thinking. Her favorite activities include writing science fiction romance and playing with her doggies. She currently lives in a tiny, century-old farmhouse with her magnificent husband and two marvelous mutts in Louisville, Kentucky.

You can find out more about Eva on:

Her Blog Facebook Twitter Google+

# Faring Soul by Tracy Cooper-Posy

# About Faring Soul

_F aring Soul_ is the first book in the award-winning romantic space opera series, Interspace Origins. This sweet love story examines what it is to be human and what it means to love in a universe where the two are always mutual.

**_S FR Galaxy Award 2015 Winner_**

Rumors emerge that Catherine Shahrazad has returned from the fringes and been seen in Federation space. Wherever she goes, her name and her history cause civil unrest, riots and worse. The Federation Board doesn't want her there. Neither do the leaders of Cadfael College, the educators and moralists of the galaxy. No one pays any attention to the reticent navigator called Bedivere X, who pilots her ship better than she does. The truth about Bedivere threatens the entire Federation. His feelings for Cat might just save everyone. This book is part of the Interspace Origins science fiction romance series: Book 1: _Faring Soul_ Book 2: _Varkan Rise_ Book 3: _Cat and Company_

__

# Excerpt of Faring Soul

**Chapter One**

_S hanterry, Shanta II. Fringe Territories. Federation Year 10.066_

The cavernous hall held about five hundred men with skin the color of a really good rose wine and not a single one of them so much as noticed her. Loud chatter filled the air. The local language was a throat-ripper, but the laughter and smiles that punctuated it said they were having a great time. They might not be looking at her but Catherine knew that every man at this end of the hall was watching her, just the same.

"Bedivere?" she said softly, barely letting her lips form the word.

"I'm right here, Cat," he said in her ear, the slight burr in his voice more distinct across the link.

"I'm the _only_ woman here."

He chuckled. "You should feel right at home then."

"I'm serious. I'm the only woman, the only red-head, the only one with white skin. I'm the only stranger. I'm standing out like a black hole in a star field."

"Then you won't have to announce you're there."

Despite her being so obviously out of place, she couldn't catch anyone's eye to ask where to find Neweds Friday. "Easy for you to say," she shot back, not trying to hide her speech anymore. If they were going to pretend she was invisible, she'd pretend they weren't there, too. "You're sitting on a cruiser, parked on a deserted tidal plain ten klicks away from this."

"Tap someone on the shoulder, ask for Friday and go from there." She could almost hear his shrug. "He wouldn't have set up the meeting here if he thought you would be in any sort of danger. They want their money."

His nonchalance steadied her and she was annoyed at her momentary doubt. _Focus_ , she reminded herself. She had been in far worse situations.

Most of the people in the room were talking among themselves, many of them moving from group to group. She couldn't see to the far end of the cavernous room, because there were too many men.

So she stepped over to the nearest man and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me." She used Standard, for the local dialect took vocal inflexions she couldn't manage and to get them wrong was considered insulting.

The man took his time turning. He was as tall as most of the fully mature men in the room seemed to be, which meant he was taller than Catherine and close to Bedivere's height. She looked at the man. His eyes, like most Shantans', were a reddish brown. Shanta was a closed-off little fringe world, although Friday was trying to change that by any means necessary. Their gene pool had thrown up some interesting mutations that in-breeding had stabilized. Which was a pity, Catherine thought, because unlike the vast majority of the settled galaxy that displayed only mild variations after millennia of racial cross-breeding, Shantans would stand out anywhere else, just like she was conspicuous here in this room.

If Neweds Friday achieved his ambition of a Shantan seat on the Federation Board, the interstellar traffic to and from Shanta would change that and much more.

"I'm looking for Neweds Friday," Catherine said. "I have an appointment with him. He said to meet him here. Do you know where I can find him?"

The man turned and pointed toward the other end of the room.

Catherine smiled at him. "Thanks." She hitched the bag over her shoulder to a more comfortable position and moved around him, for he continued to stare at her with an expressionless face, apparently happy to stand unmoving in front of her forever. She sidled around the knots of men, heading in the general direction the first one had indicated. As she passed each group, they fell silent and turned to watch her move forward, their soft flowing robes settling back around their knees as they all grew still.

Her heart picked up speed.

"You've gone quiet," Bedivere said. "Still good?"

She tapped out "yes" against her ear. In a room that was heading for silence, she wasn't willing to speak aloud and let them know she had backup parked on the outskirts of the city.

No one got out of her way so Catherine twisted and turned and moved sideways until she reached the other side of the room. There, she spotted the man who had to be Neweds Friday. Because Shanta was a fringe world, they weren't plugged into the fedcore. Digging up images of Friday had been impossible, even with Bedivere's advanced hunting skills. But Catherine knew it was him. Neweds Friday was the leader of this world and there was a single man sitting in a big chair surrounded by six or seven attentive men, looking more like a king than any leader had a right to. This had to be Friday.

Unlike everyone else, Friday looked at her directly as soon as she spotted him. His face was unreadable, but there was intelligence in his eyes.

Catherine approached him and everyone turned to follow her progress. Now the room was completely and utterly silent.

"Neweds Friday," she acknowledged when she reached him.

"Caitlyn Azad," Friday returned.

He didn't get to his feet. But Catherine didn't bow, either, so she figured they were even. "We have business to transact," she told him. "Perhaps you would like to step away from all the attention and conclude our business in private?"

"I trust these men completely," Friday said. He had a strong accent that made it difficult to understand his Standard. "They are my right arm and they are the reason this great world will win its place at the Federation table. You may speak freely in front of them."

"He's campaigning," Bedivere said, sounding disgusted.

"Mmm," Catherine replied. If Friday found it necessary to promote himself within the confines of a private business deal, then his position as the leader of Shanta wasn't secure. There had to be challengers. Were those challengers opposed to this deal?

The back of her neck prickled hard and Catherine suddenly wished she had a pair of eyes in the back of her head. She forced herself to smile brightly at Friday. "Very well. Let's finish the deal."

The men shifted around her and she realized with growing unease that they were standing very close to her back and all around her. She was effectively surrounded. There was space behind Friday's chair. Everyone wanted to be in front of the chair where the king could see them. But the chair itself was blocking her and any move she made toward the chair would alarm everyone around her and bring an instant reaction.

She kept her feet still even though she really wanted to edge her way out of the enclosure. Instead, she gripped the straps of the bag on her shoulder, turning her hand inward so no one would spot how white her knuckles were.

The shifting of the men morphed into a parting, so that a narrow corridor was formed. Through the corridor, two men walked carrying a table between them. It looked like real wood and glowed with polish and care. It was placed reverently down in front of the chair, between Catherine and Friday.

The crowd moved back in around them.

Catherine frowned. To her mind, this was a simple exchange of goods for money, a transaction she had conducted thousands of times. But the assembly, the chair, the grand table...it had the trappings of ceremony. Friday was trying to impress his people. It was important that they see a successful deal take place. Which meant there was far more riding on this deal than she had properly understood.

She and Bedivere had deconstructed the deal down to the cellular level. What had they missed?

Her heartbeat lifted and she swallowed.

The corridor formed once more and through the newly formed space came three men. The one in front was carrying a rattler—an older model, but still far more powerful than any non-Federation weapon ever built. He wore full body armor so that even his face was covered.

A guard, Catherine realized.

There was a second guard at the end of the short train. The man in the middle was carrying a hard-shell case, about twenty centimeters across and fifteen deep. He carried it on both hands, as though it was fragile or valuable or both. He laid the case down carefully in the middle of the gleaming surface of the table. The workmanlike hard sides of the case looked prosaic against the wood.

Friday waved toward the case. "You may inspect the goods," he said, as the two guards took up stances, one on each end of the table, and both turned to watch her.

Catherine swung the bag so it was resting against her back and leaned over the table. She carefully lifted the case over to her side of the table, as if it was just as treasured by her. In a way, it was. This deal would bring her one step closer to a long-held ambition, one of the most ambitious achievements she had ever reached for.

She rested her hand on the top of the case. "The environment inside is sterile?"

"There is an independent sterility bubble. You can open the case without harm to the device."

Catherine believed him. Despite being a fringe world, the Shantans were techno-freaks. They had a knack for developing unexpected combinations of old and new, obscure and obvious. The resulting tech often provided solutions to problems people weren't even aware needed addressing. The Shantans were also amenable to one-off tailored orders...for a price.

Technology development was their forte and the backbone of their economy. It had put Shanta within reach of qualifying for Federation membership. Friday was pushing to close the gap.

If they said the inside of the case was sterile and protected, she had no reason to doubt them. She opened the case.

The device was nestled in a cradle of protective fibers. A slight sheen in the air over the top of the device proved the sterile bubble was in place. Catherine studied the device. It was about five centimeters square, with odd projections and bumps, enclosed in a silky smooth hard white shell, except for four protruding wires that had been wound up into neat bundles.

Catherine closed the lid.

"You are satisfied?" Friday asked.

"I have no idea what I'm looking at," Catherine said frankly and truthfully. "But if it doesn't do what we asked for it to do, it will be a black mark on Shanta's reputation. I'll be very happy to tell everyone I know how Shanta let me down." She smiled. "I know a lot of people."

Friday smiled just as widely. "We would not gamble with our reputation so close to our world's finest hour."

"Unless he can get away with it in private," Bedivere murmured in her ear and Catherine fought not to laugh.

She hitched the heavy bag off her shoulder and placed it on the table. "Federation yen, at the price we agreed upon." She rested her hand on the bag briefly. There was a lot of money in it. She and Bedivere could have lived on it for a few years. Friday, with his ostentatious ways, would burn through it in a year. But it was none of her business how he chose to spend it.

She reached for the handle of the hard case and Friday held up his hand. "There is just one additional matter before we can conclude our business," he said.

Catherine let go of the case reluctantly. Her heart hammered. "There is nothing else," she said. "You have your money. I take the tech and we're done." They were empty words, but the protest was necessary. She had to look like this was an undesirable surprise, even though they had been half-expecting something like this.

"Damn, he's going to up the ante," Bedivere said.

"Mmm," she said.

Friday's smile increased. "Meeting your technical specifications provided challenges we had not anticipated. We are out of pocket on these expenses."

Catherine shook her head. "That's not my problem."

"Your price was to include the development of the device. These are development costs." His smile faded and the men around Catherine shifted. The guards, though, were perfectly still.

"You're reneging on the deal we made," she pointed out.

"I'm renegotiating."

"We had reached mutually acceptable terms already."

"Then consider the increase inflation. You have no choice, Caitlyn Azad. No one else could build this for you."

"True," Bedivere added. "Or we wouldn't be here talking to him. I'm ready. Just give the word."

Catherine nodded. "How much?" she asked Friday.

He quoted the price and she sighed. "That's nearly double."

"String him along," Bedivere said. "Let him think you're figuring out how to pay that much."

Catherine studied Friday. What had changed? Why all the ceremony? The public deal? The reach for even more money didn't fit with the pomp and circumstance.

Unless...

"What's the date?" she asked aloud. "The Federation date?" she qualified.

Friday frowned. "What?"

"It's the second month of sixty-six," Bedivere answered swiftly. "The new Board criteria are published at the start of each Federation year." He had understood why she was asking about the date.

"And he can't meet the new criteria," Catherine said, watching Friday watch her with his muddy orange-brown eyes. "He's screwing us to get his cash."

There were enough men standing around her fluent in Standard that their combined reactions and movement raised the tension in the room immediately. Catherine moved her feet, getting ready for action.

"I'm looking at the new criteria now," Bedivere said. "The cash contribution alone would bankrupt most fringe planets. This isn't personal. Friday is probably squeezing every single deal for extra cash. But now he's named the new price, he can't afford to back down even with a fair negotiation. He'll lose face."

Catherine nodded. "So, whenever you're ready," she told Bedivere.

"Who are you speaking to?" Friday demanded.

"My navigator," Catherine said and pointed toward the ceiling, letting him confirm in his own mind that her ship was in orbit, just as a normal ship would be. It wouldn't occur to anyone in this room that a ship that was jump-capable would also be able to navigate atmosphere and land. That would play to their advantage.

"Now," Bedivere said and Catherine braced herself.

The explosion rocked the room. The sound was overwhelming. Catherine clapped her hands to her ears even though she had been expecting it. Lights flickered and the ground shook.

Panic immediately gripped the room but before the floor stopped rolling, Catherine pole-vaulted the table and took out one of the armed guards with a kick under the chin, one of the weak points in that type of armor. She completed the vault, grabbed the hard case and pointed her hand at the second guard, aiming for the underarm area. He'd raised his gun, a Wiebe knock-off that had a tendency to stick at the wrong moment. The movement lifted his arm and gave her a large target.

The sleepy dart gave a soft hissing sound as it left the dart gun tucked into her sleeve, but she didn't hear it beneath the roaring panic gripping the room. The dart buried itself in the guard's armpit and he immediately crumpled. The anesthetic was powerful.

"And now," Bedivere said.

The second explosion locked in the confusion and hysteria, which was exactly what the percussion bombs had been intended to do. They were harmless artificial thunder, set off right up against the side of the building, but when they were not expected, on a world that had never experienced storms, they generated just the sort of panic Catherine needed to escape.

Friday was just starting to lift himself out of his chair, his eyes wide. Catherine landed on her feet on the other side of the table, right in front of his chair. She let momentum carry her forward and grabbed Friday's shoulder, shoving him back into the chair. Then she pushed down, using his shoulder for leverage and vaulted again, this time right over the arm of the chair. She slotted her feet through the opening between the chair and the official standing next to it, his hand to his ears. This time, when her boots contacted the floor she let herself roll forward, the case tucked up against her chest to protect it.

The roll brought her to a sprawling halt, five meters beyond the milling, robed men. She picked up the case, got to her feet, spotted the back door Bedivere had found on the radar scan of the building an hour before landing the ship and ran like hell.

The streets of Shanterry were nice and straight, but they were narrow. Bedivere couldn't land here without destroying buildings. Destruction of property would build resentment against them, when all they wanted to do was take their fair share of the deal. Catherine had left the bag with the agreed-upon payment in it sitting on the table.

So she gripped the handle of the case and kept running. "Bedivere!"

"I've got your location. There's a park, three kilometers ahead of you and two blocks over. It's big enough to take the ship."

"See you there."

Behind her, Catherine heard shouts and running boots. Soon, air cars and ground cars would join the chase. But she was two hundred meters ahead of them and pursuit just made her run faster.

She had to get two blocks over, so she started jagging and jigging through side streets, always keeping count of how far north she had gone. She could shift farther north than the park, but that would mean having to come back south to reach it and possibly running into her pursuit. So she headed east more than she travelled north, dodging and ducking all the way.

When the air cars came overhead, using spotlights, she turned into a doorway and leaned against the closed door, catching her breath. It was a residential building, but no one came to see who had entered. Perhaps the man of the building had been at the meeting. In this patriarchal world, no one would think to come and check for themselves if the man wasn't there.

She pressed her ear against the door, listening, then checked in with Bedivere. "I should hire myself out to a Federation cruiser," she said. "Good food, decent entertainment and all you have to do is make sure the passengers are having a good time. None of this running and dodging people with weapons."

"The Federation would take you in a heartbeat."

"Yeah, but not to give me a job on their luxury liners," she said dryly. "Where now?"

"If you can get through the building, there is no one on the street south of you. They're anticipating your direction and everyone is moving north east." He paused. "You could always dump the tech."

She pushed herself off the door and headed along the dim corridor. It was late at night by Shantan standards. Everyone would have been asleep, although she doubted anyone was still asleep after all the commotion and noise outside.

"I spent two years saving to buy this stupid thing. I'm not dumping it now," she told Bedivere. "Besides, I'm not leaving you."

"I'm the one flying the ship. Wouldn't I have to leave _you_?" He sounded amused. "I'm three minutes away. You're about five minutes away, if you keep to the same pace."

"Easier said than done," Catherine said dryly, moving through the corridor, looking for the back door. Or the front door, maybe. She couldn't linger long enough to figure out Shanta domestic arrangements. But a window would work just as well. "All that Soward champagne is starting to tell."

"I'll wait," he assured her.

"You'll scare the locals into next month." A jump-ship hovering over land was very loud, very bright and tended to stir up weather that included small tornados and localized hail and rain storms, all from irritating the atmosphere to the point where it had to scratch and sneeze.

"I can live with people being afraid of me."

"Liar." She found the window she needed and used the butt of the knife she pulled out of her boot to tap out the glass. It looked and behaved like straight glass, with no embedded energy collectors or thermostats, so she climbed out the window very carefully.

The street was as deserted as advertised.

"Straight ahead, now," Bedivere told her. "There's almost nothing in front of you."

" _Almost_ ," she repeated, thrilled. She began to run again. Ahead, she could hear the air throbbing and the sound of the ship's engines. There was a bright glow in the sky, pinpointing Bedivere's location. He was up very high, sparing the locals as much disruption as possible. He was such a good pilot, he could bring the ship down to touch land at the moment she reached the park.

It gave her a fresh spurt of energy. Catherine surged down the long street, heading for the bent and misshapen native trees she could see outlined by the glow from the ship. As she drew closer, the ship came lower. Bedivere was tracking her closely.

"Two to your left," he said.

Adrenaline was giving her extra power and she dropped the two Shantans easily, then picked up the case and hurried on. She was so close.

She broke out in to the park. The curly brown ground cover that Shanta used for lawn was thick underfoot, absorbing the sound of her running steps, although the shriek and throbbing of the ship so close overhead was muffling all sound.

Trees bent and a few of the taller, older and more rigid ones cracked close to the ground and fell over, their trunks shattered by the pressure of the ship lowering down to ground level. As Catherine ran toward it, the ship spun slowly, until the cargo ramp was facing her. The ramp was already down, the inside of the cargo bay with its battered walls and bent securing struts looking very homelike and comforting.

Something plucked at her sleeve and she felt heat. Fire and sparks lit up the side of the ship, close to the ramp door, then disappeared, whipped away by the wind and air pressure billowing up from the ground. Someone had fired a laser pistol and had just barely missed her.

Catherine ran harder and leapt for the end of the ramp, which was a meter from the ground. She was moving too fast and fell forward on her knees, the case skidding up the no-slip surface of the ramp. "Go!" she screamed.

The ship immediately lifted upward, the surge and power pushing her down onto the ramp and pinning her with motion-induced gravity. The ground dropped away beneath her and she looked out at the Shantans as they ran into their flattened park, staring up at the ship.

Then Bedivere rolled the ship. The end of the ramp lifted up, until the whole ramp was horizontal, letting Catherine get to her feet, pick up the case and walk wearily up to the end of the ramp. Once she was off the ramp, Bedivere closed it up completely, the upper door coming down to meet the edge of the ramp and seal the loading dock.

She clutched at the swinging strapping as the ship tilted and accelerated. He was heading for space. They had electronically disabled the orbital sentries on their way in. They were clear.

Two minutes later, Catherine dropped into the navigator chair that Bedivere usually used and let out a long heavy breath. She put the hard case on the console and patted it.

Bedivere, who was sitting in the pilot's chair, looked up from the instrumentation and grinned. The laugh lines around his warm brown eyes crinkled. "So...it went about exactly the way we expected. We'll be in clear space in three minutes, by the way." His brown-gold hair glowed in the light emitted from the overhead console. The warm color was nothing like the muddy color of native Shantans.

Catherine leaned back so her head was resting on the headrest and blew out another breath. "Nothing ever comes easy," she muttered.

"You wouldn't like it if it did."

She rolled her head to the side and looked at him. She was too tired to smile. "Despite the rhetoric that surrounds my much-maligned past, I happen to _like_ the quiet life."

Bedivere sat back as she was. "Liar. If you liked it that much, you would live quietly. I don't remember the last time you stopped to smell the roses."

"Too much to do," she muttered, glancing at the case.

The silence stretched and she looked at him. Bedivere was studying the case, too. He caught her gaze and looked back at the case again. "Next stop is Federation space," he pointed out. "If you really do want a quiet life, Cat, this is the time to shut down the engines and go mute. There won't be any going back after this."

"Of course we're going," she said sharply. "I haven't spent seventeen years scraping together every last centavo the fringes could cough up just to go live on some ball somewhere and get even older."

"We don't _have_ to do this. All we've lost right now is time and that's an infinite resource. If we head into Federation space, then much more than time is at stake."

Catherine sat up. "Getting cold feet, Bedivere?"

He shook his head. "I'm worried." His voice was very quiet. "Everything you're doing, everything you've done. It's too much."

"Just shut up right there," she said sharply and spun the chair to face him properly. "Look," she added, reaching for a reasonable voice and tone. Reason would always win out with Bedivere. Logic was the supreme argument. "I have to go back to the Federation, anyway." She touched her hair, which was liberally streaked with grey. The red that had been a rich, deep color was now faded. "You understand the therapy even better than I do. You've read even more widely and you never forget anything. You know that rejuvenation revives more than the cellular structure. I'll _feel_ young again. I won't be this cranky old woman who has seen too much, has wrinkles on her neck and aches in the morning when she gets out of bed. After, I'll be sweet and reasonable and even more determined to see this through."

He looked doubtful.

Catherine grimaced. "Besides, it's already too late."

"It is?"

"If we stay in the fringes, the Shantans will come after us with everything they've got. But they won't pursue us into Federation space and risk their membership on the Board. So we have to go there. It's the Federation or bust."

Bedivere considered that, then nodded. "As long as you're not doing this for me."

"Don't be stupid," she said and turned the chair back to face the console, to prep for the gate jump. "Of course I'm doing this for you. What else are partners for?"

He didn't argue anymore, because the ship was technically a four-man crew ship, so jump prep took all their combined attention and effort. But the little smile at the corner of his mouth didn't go away.

You can buy Faring Soul __ or find more information here.

I fell in love with _Star Wars_ and Han Solo at a tender and highly impressionable age. Harrison Ford's infamous "I know" seared itself on my writer's heart. I thought that meant I should write romance and so I did, for many, many years. At the same time I watched, read and listened to any science fiction or speculative fiction I could get my hands on. It took me fifteen years as a professional author to tumble to the fact that I could write _both_ , possibly even at the same time! The newly emerging science fiction romance genre that combines both science fiction and romance made that possible. _Faring Soul_ was my first step into this very cool, highly nerdy (after all, it has rocket ships!) and yet sweetly seductive genre. It has not been my last. By the time you read this, I will have released my fifth SFR title and I have no intentions of stopping any time soon.

Tracy Cooper-Posey is an Amazon #1 Best Selling Author. She writes romantic suspense, paranormal, urban fantasy, futuristic and science fiction romances. She has published over 55 novels since 1999, been nominated for five CAPAs including Favourite Author, and won the Emma Darcy Award. She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated four times for Book Of The Year and _Byzantine Heartbreak_ was a 2012 winner. _Faring Soul_ won a SFR Galaxy Award in 2015 for "Most Intriguing Philosophical/Social Science Questions in Galaxybuilding" She has been a national magazine editor and for a decade she taught romance writing at MacEwan University. She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science fiction and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian, she lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.

You can find out more about Tracy:

Website Facebook Twitter Pinterest Subscribe to her newsletter Goodreads

# Aliens in the Barn by Kyndra Hatch

# About Aliens in the Barn

FOUR SHORT STORIES of romance between Bazin and Miaxa, two alien beings from the planet Beryll. Finding themselves on a previously unknown planet, Earth, they grow fond of a human family. Cultural misunderstandings are a constant, the day-in-the-life misadventures of Bazin and Miaxa and their human friends.

Alexander Maddox has a special job with the government involving aliens from another world. The ones living in his barn were unexpected. Misunderstandings a daily occurrence, he is sure his resident aliens will be the death of him. A life in pieces collection of the Maddox family's everyday life with their alien residents.

**Aliens in the Barn:** There's a mechanical extraterrestrial living in Alex's barn, but what will happen if the alien's wife arrives? Wait, Bazin's married?

**Scared to Death:** Beth has been married to Alex for over a year, and he still can't make it home for dinner. Why do he and his coworker friend spend so much time working on that truck in the barn?

**The Skellyd Hunters:** With a core-bonded strength few understand, Bazin and Miaxa are Beryll's finest warriors. Sometimes they go a little too far and Andler is left with the consequences, for better or worse.

**Meet Douglas Fir:** Being human isn't easy with robotic alien residents misunderstanding the simple stuff. Alex can't imagine his family life without Bazin and Miaxa, however. Time to have them over for Christmas.

# Excerpt of Aliens in the Barn

_3 1 AEA (After Earth Arrival)_

"Something's on your mind." Alex's companion was acting strange—stranger than usual, anyway. He glanced at his disguised extraterrestrial friend, marveling at the being's ability to project flawless human form. A nice day with the windows down in the truck, Bazin sat in the passenger seat, the human façade pensive and silent. A telltale pixel of imperfection winked on the façade's cheek, a sure sign of distraction. "Nothing to say?"

Bazin's brown-haired visage, complete with specks of grey to match Alex's own, turned towards him. "It wasn't a question."

"So it's difficult Bazin today." A small car whizzed past, horn blaring. _Fifteen mph below the speed limit; my bad._ Depressing the gas pedal, Alex glanced at his fidgety passenger. Bazin had stiffened, sitting up straight, eyes wide. "Just a passing car. Don't get your wires twisted."

The alien's hands thrust under the dash. Electricity arced out over the hood of the truck, dancing across the control panel. Alex let go of the steering wheel with a curse.

"Shit, not again! If you mess up _this_ truck, they aren't giving me another one."

"That will not be a problem soon," Bazin said. "I will have plenty of energy once I'm synchronized."

What was the alien talking about now?

Bazin now looked mechanical, but moved with a fluidity that defied human logic. He was a bipedal mass of energy covered with a metallic exo-frame, woven together in an intricate mesh of cables and wires, his face wearing an expression of concentration. At least, Alex thought it was concentration. It was hard to tell facial expressions from the true forms. Bazin now had full control of the truck, hands materializing into dozens of energized cables that connected with everything needed to manipulate the truck from under the dashboard.

The radio crackled to life. "Tezin, I'm taking this mission. Go back to base and tell Kordan that I'll be along shortly with the new arrival."

It was always interesting to listen to the aliens communicate with each other when Bazin took control of a vehicle. The extraterrestrial couldn't seem to isolate his inner communication systems from the radio.

"Arrival?" Alex asked. "Shouldn't you warn them about the lightning sprites?"

"She isn't here to collect energy from sprites," Bazin said. "She will not make the same mistake we did."

"She?" Alex yelped as the truck veered onto a dirt road. "Where are you going? We're supposed to—" another yelp as Bazin sped up, hitting a bump, Alex bouncing in his seat.

"Tell them to postpone it," Bazin pronounced.

Alex watched the speedometer tick past 80 mph, his heartbeat ticking with it. "Bazin, what is it?"

No response.

Seeing that another meeting was going to be involuntarily postponed, he got out his cell phone to make the call. Despite the snugness of his seat belt, a pothole sent him bouncing high in the air, hitting his head on the ceiling. The phone flying from his hands, it bounced right out of the window. _That's just great_.

"Bazin, slow down." Alex tried to sound commanding, but if anything, the truck sped up.

**_WWWWHHHHOOOOOSSSSHHHH!_**

A massive object passed overhead, so close that Alex thought it might hit them. His mind barely had time to process the possibilities as Bazin drove faster and faster. The entire truck was shaking. The dark object slowed to a hover and the truck came to a skidding halt, rocks flying out from the tires.

"Is that a spaceship?" _Dumb question, Alex_.

Alex looked around to make sure there were no bystanders. _Well, we are in the middle of the desert._ Landing stabilizers flared out with a loud snap, flashing so brightly that he had to cover his eyes.

Bazin leapt from the truck, undisguised in spite of being in broad daylight. Bazin approached the ship, his chest glowing. There were clicks and whirring noises coming from both Bazin and the ship. Was this a functioning Beryllian ship?

A door became visible on the hull, then disappeared altogether as a short ramp appeared below the now open space. The ramp slowly formed pixel by pixel, making its way to the ground. Alex never got tired of watching the materialization process; he had no idea Beryllian ships could do it too. A bipedal figure began to descend down the newly formed ramp.

It was a mechanoid a little smaller than Bazin, just as fierce, but with a blue sheen rather than Bazin's dark grey. Something about its stance made Alex nervous. _Great, this one looks hostile--and I don 't have a way to call for help._

Bazin stopped and stared, nothing being said between the two mechanoids. Alex watched in horror as the new arrival produced a cannon from its shoulder and opened fire.

Weapons? Since when did these aliens have weapons? And how did this new arrival simply make one?

Alex flattened himself on the ground, his heart pounding in his ears, as Bazin leapt to the left of the first volley, flipping forward over the second. The other mech was closing the distance between the two as it fired, but to his surprise, Bazin was avoiding each shot. How was the alien doing that? He didn't know Bazin could fight, or defend himself, at any rate. Was his longtime companion able to make weapons too?

The new arrival looked furious. Bazin stood his ground, ducking and dodging. He blocked a punch, then sidestepped a kick, but never returned the attack. The other mechanoid produced a smaller weapon on its arm and shot Bazin's left leg.

Bazin staggered back, his shock evident even to Alex. His mouth opened, about to say something. The stranger shot him again, in the same leg, at the same spot. Bazin went down with a snarl, the new arrival jumping on the mech's chest, pinning the right arm down.

Bazin was losing this fight, but Alex didn't know what to do. All he could do was lay there as the other mechanoid reached with its left arm behind Bazin's neck. Something snaked out of its hand and made a connection.

Bazin growled—or at least, it sounded like a growl. The mechanoid's right hand was pushing at something on Bazin's chest. Bazin's free hand slapped it away, grabbing it, and pushing it away several times before it finally touched something. His upper chest-plating completely disappeared.

A brilliant blue light illuminated the other mech, and an arc of lightning flew between the two, so brightly that Alex had to turn away from it _and_ cover his eyes.

Bazin's free hand grabbed the back of the neck of the mechanoid with the advantage, wire connector clicking. It also growled, but was that—pleasure? What?

The weird connection broke when Bazin barked, "We are not alone."

The new arrival turned to look at Alex, and he stood up, taking a few steps back. It jumped off of Bazin, who scooted away. He saw the boiling, burning, ball of ice blue fire that was Bazin's core. Alex knew the core was a Beryllian's life essence, but he had never seen one before. It was—breathtaking.

Bazin glared at the other mechanoid, chest-plating reappearing, slowly standing with a wince. "What are you doing?"

"Getting information," the other's fingers splayed.

Alex realized they were both speaking English and remembered it was the Beryllian way to integrate a native language upon contact. Something about the new arrival's voice, though—it rattled around in his brain until a proverbial light bulb went on.

Was that a female? Did Beryllians have females? And what did that whole core business mean?

"Just ask," Bazin rubbed his neck. "You don't have to tap me."

"Oh, 'tap' is such a harsh accusation," she snapped.

"And what were you doing with my core-casing?" he grumped. "That's a little more than interfacing, don't you think?"

The other alien smiled. It was definitely a smile, Alex decided. She took a step towards Bazin, and an arc of lightning passed between them again. They both gasped and clutched their chests in unison. What the hell?

A similar gun to the one the new arrival had materialized out of Bazin's arm. Alex blinked. He'd known Bazin and the other Beryllians for years. How had he missed something so crucial?

Bazin pointed the weapon at the smaller alien. "Stay back."

The two stared at each other for long moments, and Bazin's features began to soften. The features hardened again. "And why were you shooting at me?" Bazin inspected the wound in his leg. "You _shot_ me."

The blue-sheened alien raised her gun arm. "Don't you ever leave me again."

_Leave me?_ What was Alex witnessing here?

Bazin lowered his gun and closed the distance between them, grasping her hand. "I wouldn't think of it," Bazin said softly in Beryllian. She was clearly integrating the native language of their human allies, but this was becoming too personal. Bazin did not like an audience for personal matters.

His chest felt like it was on fire. Little arcs of lightning danced between them as their cores called to each other, demanding to be joined. He couldn't ignore the sensation, didn't want to. She grasped his other hand and started to move closer. "Don't come any closer," he warned. "I don't think I can control it."

A wicked grin spread across her features. "I thought not." She slid a fingertip across his chest-plate, which dematerialized again on its own accord.

"Gah, Miaxa!" Bazin stepped away from her, nearly tripping over his injured leg.

It was all he could do not to pull her to him. Shaking from the effort, his core clearly needed to join with hers in order to finally feel whole again. The sound of her laughter sang through his systems. It had been so long. He couldn't believe she was standing right here. All this time, he didn't know if she was even still alive.

Bazin caught a glimpse of Alexander Maddox's gaping mouth and quickly rematerialized his carbide plates. Said human's mouth opened and closed. A sound came out, but it was unintelligible. Miaxa noticed the noise.

"This—is a human?" She sounded less than impressed, but she did switch to the human's language.

"Yes," Bazin said, offended for his human friend, even if the organic didn't know she was being offensive. "This is Alexander Maddox. Didn't you get the file?" He'd just uploaded everything about their human allies during the brief interface.

"Yes, yes," she waved a hand dismissively. "It's just that I thought they were bigger."

She approached the human, and Alex blanched under her gaze. To the organic's credit, he stood his ground.

"Hello Alexander Maddox," she said to the human. "I'm Miaxa. I'm Bazin's core-mate."

"You can just call me Alex," the human stated, his stance becoming more relaxed.

"Don't crowd him," Bazin grumbled.

"Such a bundle of good cheer," Miaxa remarked. Alex stifled a chuckle. Bazin crossed his arms.

"I like the language," she continued absently. "I like the way it sounds in my vocalizers." She looked at Bazin. "And I really miss this armor." She moved to touch him again.

Wide arcs of electricity sparked between them, again, both of their chests glowing now, even though they weren't that close. Bazin put a little more distance between them.

"Wow," she exclaimed in wonderment. "It's inevitable."

As fascinated as he was by the reaction of their cores, he really wanted to get Maddox's gaping jaw out of there so that they could find someplace private. They needed synchronization as much as the human needed air, but having an audience wasn't acceptable, especially an organic one. He was on the verge of losing control. Their cores were going to unite, whenever, however, whether they could control them or not.

Bazin took a few more steps back for good measure. "We should rendezvous with the others." They were going to be as surprised as he was.

"There isn't enough energy left to sustain the drives," Miaxa said, pointing to the ship.

Bazin nodded. He figured as much. That was probably why it had come in as hot as it did. He kept waiting for the others to disembark, but no one else seemed brave enough to venture out onto the organic planet. Their history with organics wasn't very good, after all.

"Wait. We can't just leave that giant-ass ship in the middle of the desert," Alex piped up from behind them.

Miaxa pressed a button on her arm. The entire ship pixelated to blend in with the desert and sky, the same way they manipulated their frames to look human.

"Wow. Their ship doesn't do that," Alex pointed at Bazin.

"The Illusion." Bazin blew his vents, amazed. He didn't recognize it at first. Now, there was no mistaking it. "You can't be the only one on this ship."

Miaxa bowed her head, and Bazin could feel conflict through their bond, followed by a sense of loss and a void he couldn't quite place.

"Zek let you take his ship? Alone?"

"We didn't have a choice," she said softly.

Silence lingered between them.

Alex disappeared from their periphery and the pickup truck they were in earlier soon appeared. The engine sputtered, but it was still running despite the recent abuse. The human rolled down the window from the driver's seat. "We have to leave sometime."

Miaxa stepped away from the truck, lip-plate curled. "I am not getting in that with an organic."

Bazin crossed his arms, once again offended for his human friend, but also understanding her reservations. "Neither one of us has the energy to materialize one for ourselves, so it's this or we walk."

"Speak for yourself." She took a few steps back before projecting a four-wheeled enclosed vehicle around her body.

Bazin took a step back also, watching the process that he and his Earth-bound companions were no longer able to do. How she had enough energy to even attempt it didn't compute. He felt static in the air as the vehicle formed piece by piece, slowly pixelating around her body, each bit fusing together as the next formed beyond it, energy-encased wiring branching out of her body so she had complete control of every component, until it was fully enclosed around her.

_Magnificent._

You can buy Aliens in the Barn __ or find more info here.

There is very little mech alien romance. I love cyborgs, but what if the characters were fully robotic? Fully mechanical? Perhaps even cyborg in a more alien sense of energy beings using mechanical components to enhance themselves? Since I can't find it, I decided to start writing it.

As I work on a full series about Beryllians, energy beings from Beryll who use mechanical components to contain their energy, I like to watch a show called "Life in Pieces." In this show, each episode is told through four short stories. It's an unconventional way to tell a story, but I find I really enjoy it.

I've written several short stories featuring Bazin and Miaxa, their encounters and interactions with a human family, for the now defunct website, QuarterReads. They are stand alone, but when read together, each one gives a broader picture of the Maddox family and their alien residents, just like each short story gives a broader picture of the family in "Life in Pieces."

When the SFR Brigade had a submission call for 8,000 word short stories for the anthology, "Romancing the Stars," I wrote "Aliens in the Barn." As I finished my submission and watched more of the show, I wanted to do something similar with "Aliens in the Barn" and three of the short stories that had previously been on QuarterReads. From there, "Aliens in the Barn: 4 Short Stories of Mech Alien Romance and Misadventure" was born.

Kyndra Hatch grew up with a fascination for science fiction and a deep interest in ancient civilizations, a combination which fuels her active imagination. After twelve exciting years as an archaeologist, Kyndra has decided to take a break from her career to have more time with her husband of nearly two decades. She pursues a passion for writing and is an active member of the SFR Brigade. Her debut story, "The Stranger," won the 2014 SFR Galaxy Award for Outstanding Debut Story.

"The Stranger" can be found in the anthology, "Tales from the SFR Brigade" and is set in the same universe as "Aliens in the Barn."

"Aliens in the Barn" is featured in the anthology, "Romancing the Stars: 8 Short Stories of Galactic Romance and Adventure."

Kyndra is currently working on a series for this universe: Fracture. Visit her blog for updates and coming release dates.

Thanks for reading!

You can find out more about Kyndra here:

Website Twitter

# The Vista by S. A. Hoag

# About The Vista

2047. Tiny pockets of humanity are all that remain, scattered, struggling, and many, not at all civilized. The Vista has remained isolated in the Rocky Mountains since World War Last, a generation earlier, its survivors content with what they have. Their children, becoming adults themselves, yearn for the knowledge of the outside world. That knowledge could make their lives less perilous, or it could destroy them.

The Vista is the first book in The Wildblood series, a sweeping action-adventure that takes place across the post-apocalyptic ruins of the Rocky Mountains.

# Excerpt of The Vista

Chapter 1

**n ear The Vista April 11 4am**

* * *

A storm moved in after nightfall, the rain almost ice as it fell from a black sky. No thunder, sparse lightning and that was the worst part of it – the broken, eerie silence between downpours. Shannon didn't like being in the city for any reason. Twice a week, four months a year she was anyway. It was her job. They might say ghosts weren't real, but most of 'them' had never spent a night in the long dead place. Sometime after midnight, she gave in and headed for home.

Crossing the Continental Divide, the rain turned to snow, huge white flakes splattering on the windshield and not melting. The road was mostly clear. Static on Shannon's radio was thick, but minutes later, she understood two words. Code Seven. Active aggressive incident outside the outer perimeter, but active aggressive still. She kicked it into overdrive and came down the mountain full tilt, pushing the car and pushing her luck on a road known to devour Scouts.

Then the outer marker merely went 'blip' as she passed it. If there was an alert, proximity warnings would have gone off all over Security. Alarms should be sounding in Dispatch and her car. She stared at the radio for a moment, realizing what she had stumbled in to.

Wargames. The call-out wasn't real.

"Car Ten, radio check. Alert status," she said on the air, dead calm. She'd been a Scout more than three years. Calm was what they did, it was the only way to survive. The Vista was still far enough away for most of the reply to be static.

"Alert Six, Car Ten," Dispatch responded. No alert. Things happened when she was on the other side of the divide for half a day. She missed wargames. It was too late to pretend she had known and Shan went for a timed run. The adrenalin wouldn't let her slow down anyway.

In the dark, a flicker of taillights warned her she wasn't alone. At this time of night and this time of year, it would be someone who knew it was a practice run. As Shan came up behind them, she recognized the car. Team One was a

Guardian team from her station that had just rotated back to her schedule.

She flashed her high-beams for them to clear the left lane. There was no immediate response.

They were supposed to be in radio-silence too, but hell, no one had bothered to tell her about the wargames. "Move it over, Lt. Hunter," Shan warned on the air. She shared some expletives with the junior officer, knowing who was driving simply by reputation.

Team One did indeed move right. Shannon passed them like they were parked, turning on her emergency lights as she went around the rusted out carcass of a semi trailer not even a mile further down the road.

"She'll do what?" Hunter asked his partner Dallas, amused at her tirade and understanding exactly what she'd said.

"You heard her." Dallas knew better than to think it was funny. He knew Shannon.

"Fuck up my life permanently," the younger man repeated, smiling to himself. "Does she get that from Wade?" he wondered.

"Cmdr. Wade rarely swears. She gets that from Maj. MacKenzie." Dallas emphasized the rank of her Guardian team to make a point.

"Senior Security," Hunter shrugged as her car disappeared in the night. He wasn't particularly concerned about her attitude and Senior Security officers were known for being eccentric. It would be twenty minutes before they caught up with her, but only because she stopped.

Dallas saw her cutting through the crowd and made certain not to be in her way this time. He knew where she was going. When Shan was angry – and she looked angry – it wasn't time to be in her line of fire. Hunter was about to learn that the hard way.

"Lt. Hunter." Her tone was ice but her eyes smoldered with some wild emotion. It wasn't fear. She got right in front of him to make her complaint. "Who taught you to drive?"

"Dallas," he answered, hitching a thumb at his friend. Hunter was tall, blond and lean, well-aware the southern accent that never completely faded from his voice had an amazing effect on women.

Most women, anyway. "You weren't paying enough attention," Shannon told him point-blank. Now he understood the stories he'd heard since joining Security. They'd failed to mention just how easy on the eyes she was. That was the joke, and it was on him. A rookie mistake, Dallas would say.

"Yes ma'am," he answered.

"When I tell you to move, Lt., you better be doing it so fast I don't get the sentence finished. Code Calls out here usually have a body count." Shannon wasn't shy, never had been. Nearly as tall as Hunter, she wore tactical gear including winter camos, a heavy scarf for head cover, a huge knife on her belt and two fair-sized handguns, one on each hip. She outranked any Guardian under command status when they were beyond The Vista. Scouts roamed the outlands, beyond the perimeter, as recon, the reason many of them went full-on with military gear. Long dark hair, eyes that looked gray in the false light of snow and headlights, she was definitely female and definitely could cause him problems in Security. Guardians were internal security. He was out of his element, in more ways than one.

"You weren't at the Station, Captain. We didn't know you were timing the run." Hunter had a perfectly legitimate excuse.

"Neither did I." She was still ready for a fight that wasn't there.

Dallas understood. "Seriously, Shan," he exhaled.

"Major Dallas." Shannon acknowledged, rubbing her eyes, the adrenalin finally burning off to fatigue. She'd been out on her regular run nearly three days. "I crossed the divide after the call-out went on the air. For the record."

"I didn't know." "Neither did I," she repeated, frustrated. It was over, she could vent now.

"Are we on report?" Dallas asked, hoping Hunter would have the good sense not to let his mouth talk them into any real trouble with her.

"For what?" she wondered out loud. "Being a rookie?"

"You never know." Dallas changed the subject. "Team Three actually missed the call-out." Her team, and she wasn't surprised but she smiled.

"They're parked on the road." She turned to gaze into the dark as if she could see them. "They both drive like . . ." Shan glanced back at Hunter. "Well, like Guardians."

Dallas damned sure would have moved the first time she said it, out there on the interstate, in the dark at seventy miles an hour. Not that Hunter would blame him, as tight as she was with her Guardian team. Wade had developed a dislike of Hunter, and Wade was their Section Commander.

Shan was distracted now. Maj. MacKenzie joined them from the tangle of cars on the blacktop. The mud didn't bother Mac, neither did the snow or the cold.

"When did you decide to join the party?" she asked like she didn't already know.

"They stopped registering at twenty minutes," Mac whispered loudly to her.

"So when did you clock in?" Shan persisted.

"Oh, about twenty-five minutes I suppose," he grinned.

"You should have stayed home." Dallas and Shan said together. All three senior officers laughed, tension dissipated.

"That's what I said," Mac confirmed, offering her an arm and escorting Shan towards the tents. He was the oldest of Team Three at almost twenty-four, four years older than Shan but only a couple months Wade's senior. The Major was tall and thin, which made him look taller yet. What most people didn't realize right off was that Mac was solid muscle, strong, and very fast.

"What was that?" Hunter asked Dallas as they made their way to the debriefing.

"She came in hot," Dallas told him. It wouldn't be a big secret by daybreak.

"You're kidding. Did she have her radio off?"

"Other side of the pass. Sometimes Scouts wander through the cities, just to see," Dallas explained. "So my advice is to steer clear of her for a few days, give her time to forget about it. She wasn't really pissed at you to begin with."

"Forget? I doubt it. And thanks for spending the past year insinuating she wasn't anything to look at. Damn." Hunter shook his head.

"She won't hold a grudge. Shan's a good kid," Dallas told him. Hunter was watching her entirely too intently. "Do you really want Team Three to catch you leering at her?"

"That is no kid," Hunter pointed out.

"Alright, she's spoken for." Dallas made it simple for him to forget the girl.

Hunter shrugged it off.

"Where you see one of them, the other two are close by," Dallas reminded him.

"How have I missed her for the past year then?" Hunter asked.

"No accident," Dallas said, nodding.

Wade had shown. It was time for a lecture on what they'd all done wrong.

The hastily thrown together three-sided canopy would be the debriefing area, as the weather was rapidly deteriorating. Rain, snow or ice would fall out of the sky intermittently and Wade declared a recall as soon as Cmdr. Duncan was finished with them.

"Short rotation?" Shan figured.

"Sweeps start in three weeks," Mac pointed out. "Believe it or not. It's that time again, boys and girls."

"Girls?" she debated, still the only female in Security beyond Dispatch. A point her mother never let her forget, especially when one of them landed in the Emergency Room. Dr. Deirdre Allen had higher aspirations for her only child. Shannon just wasn't interested in whatever those aspirations were.

"We've had three feet of snow in March, we should be getting this show on the road," Hunter said to no one in particular. "It's only April." All the vehicles in security were four-wheel drive capable. The weather still brought them to a standstill inside The Vista several times a winter. Guardians relied on snow-cats, snowmobiles and horses more than half the year.

"Has Duncan picked teams?" Dallas asked, glad Hunter had chosen somewhere to stand other than next to Shannon. Of course, that would've put him right next to Wade or MacKenzie.

"Too soon," Mac shrugged. "Command usually waits until the last minute for details." The past three years with Shan as Team Three's Scout, they drew two Sweeps runs. They'd lost last year's run because both men were on medical waivers. Shan had opted out rather than go with a new team.

"You haven't been home in weeks," Cmdr. Wade quietly told her as several other officers joined the growing crowd. He barely glanced at Hunter.

"I've been tattled on," Shan said. She was nineteen; she expected a certain amount of freedom. Occasionally, she got it.

Wade explained, "Make a point, especially with Sweeps so close." Their yearly trek outside the confines of the valley to survey nearby cities was more than a little strenuous on their families, not to mention the wear and tear on the teams themselves.

Jason Noel and Kyle Taylor, both Scouts, joined them. The light snow earlier had rapidly turned to heavy wet flakes that began accumulating. "Short rotation is a miserable job," Taylor claimed, having enough time on the job to know it for a fact.

"Most ranking Scouts are doing two runs a week anyway," Mac pointed out, adjusting his sidearm and then messing Shan's pony-tailed hair. She slapped his hand away, feigning annoyance. "Short rotation cuts you back to one so you can rest up for Sweeps." He grinned at that, the perfect amount of sarcasm for the middle of the night in the middle of a Montana blizzard.

"Teams get reservists, rookies and messed up rotations," Noel added. "It's all fun and games until someone rolls a car."

"Too bad senior teams don't decide who goes," Dallas said.

"That would be Team Three," Shan pointed out.

"Not years in Security," Taylor added jovially. "Just years." He laughed. So did most of them. He was three days younger than Shan.

"Was that aimed at us?" Hunter asked Dallas. He was the rookie, he took everything personally.

"Don't worry about it," Dallas told him. "They're just blowing off steam." He'd managed to make it to his mid-forties, while Hunter was merely pushing thirty. It didn't bother him that a bunch of very young officers outranked him either. It was what they trained for all their lives.

"Who do you have to bribe?" Hunter asked just to stir it up.

"His step-father," Taylor nodded towards Wade.

"Ouch," Noel grimaced.

"That's not funny," Wade said. Richard Cameron wasn't particularly liked in security circles and he felt pretty much the same about them. He was a Councilman, and they had to deal with him regularly.

"Capt. Allen," Cmdr. Duncan called from the front of the tent. "Car Eight is down. When you go in, I need you to transport back to The Vista."

"Not a problem," she acknowledged.

"Taylor's with Wade, I'm with you," Mac volunteered. "We should get a game started." "Baseball or hockey?" Taylor asked.

"Yeah," Mac agreed. "One of those."

"Okay, everyone listen up so we can do this and get out of the snow," Cmdr. Duncan spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "At 3:20am by Central Dispatch time, we aired a Code Ten for a lightning strike fire at Depot North. Time allotment was fifty minutes. Three fire teams and five cars from Station Two responded in time. From Station One, four cars made it in – cars Three, Six, Eight and Twenty-four. Good job."

He let them discuss it for a few moments. "At 4:20am we aired a Code Seven here, at Checkpoint Fourteen. Time allotted was seventeen minutes. One car from Station Two clocked in. Cars Six, Eight, Ten, Twenty-one and Twenty-seven made it in. Again, good job. We have some Guardian Teams making the times. Thank our Scouts for that. They're giving up their days off to ride around with you."

"Car Ten?" Hunter asked Dallas.

"She drives it dozens of times a week, in the rain and snow and dark. It's her job, you know." Dallas said.

Wade took over. "Due to road conditions, mechanical failure is still our biggest problem." Someone made a snide comment to Taylor and a murmur of laughter passed through the crowd. He'd made good time on both runs, then broke his steering column moving it off the road.

"What we need to concentrate on now, for the next few months, is keeping the outer perimeter well patrolled and the inner perimeter clear. We have a couple trouble spots that persist year after year." Wade paced as he spoke. It wasn't a nervous habit, he simply bordered on hyperactive.

"The Junction, Highways 141 and 12, is less than twenty miles from The Vista, the closest point on the inner perimeter. That's mere minutes for those of us that don't drive so much. Minutes from downtown." Wade let them think about it. "In the past three years we've had eight Code call-outs. Everyone in Security is aware we've lost officers there, not even including the Nomad attack in Sept. of '44. That's a lecture for another day. A reminder of how bad things can go very quickly."

Duncan spoke again. "We've activated motion detectors along those roads to cover times when personnel can't. They aren't as reliable as we'd like. Keep that in mind when you take the assignment."

"Someone, and in the summer at least two officers, will drive The Junction every day," Wade told them. "Same thing for our hot spot in Butte, all summer long." Tall with dark hair he wore long, brilliant blue eyes and a well-maintained physique, Wade had a reputation for pursuing many females of no particular type. He hadn't settled with any one companion and apparently, his women were willing to share. His personal life made for a lot of gossip at Station One. Monogamy was the standard, not the rule, in The Vista, although the first generation, the survivors of the war, were far more prone to it than their children.

"Recall at dawn to Station Two for new assignments," Duncan announced, signaling the end of the debriefing. "Scouts are free to go now."

"Watch your backs," Wade told them. "Capt. Allen, help me clear Car Eight so we can head for home," he motioned to her.

"I'll wait," Mac said. He'd been out all night and wasn't known for being nocturnal.

"I hear you came in hot from Butte on that second call-out," Wade started the conversation. He took the driver's seat and began logging inventory on a clipboard. That was nearly as high-tech as it got in The Vista.

"I did." Shan shook her head, still annoyed she hadn't known better. She should have, plain and simple. Wade didn't have to say it.

"You look tired."

"Yeah. I was heading in for the end of the run. I'd be curled up in my bed at Station Two if I had sense enough to figure it out." She leaned forward, digging loose shotgun shells from under the seat.

"Go to my place and get some rest before you see your parents. Deirdre would take great joy in slapping a medical on us again this year." Station Two was a madhouse before Sweeps. Wade's house was one of the larger ones in The Vista, with several separate living areas, well fortified and on the western outskirts of the city.

"I won't find any of your girlfriends waiting?" she asked. "You might. Throw them out." "Them?" "Her, them, whatever," Wade grinned, knowing Shan was well aware of what was true and what was mere rumor.

Shan shook her head. "Not a problem." She wasn't particularly fond of any of Wade's women.

"Don't let Mac keep you awake."

"He'll be out before I get a mile down the road."

"No, I mean later. Don't let him keep you awake," he repeated slower.

"Stop worrying," Shan told him.

"Shouldn't I?"

"Not so much as you'd think. Rumors of our sex life have been greatly exaggerated. And I'm careful, I know what days are off-limits."

"Let him drive in," Wade suggested, not wanting to get into the conversation with her again. It was pretty much a futile effort and he really wasn't in a position to lecture her.

"With ice falling out of the sky? No, not happening. We'll be lucky to get everyone in without a wreck as it is."

"Good point. Your mother, she's still trying to talk you out of Security." It wasn't a question, it wasn't even a subtle change-of-subject.

"Absolutely."

"What do you tell her?"

"I don't tell her anything. Why do you think I haven't stayed at home in so long? All we do is fight and she's right and I'm stupid." Shan took a breath.

"It's good that you recognize she's right and you're stupid," he grinned. "Seriously. It's not what you're worried about," he told her.

"No? How can you be sure?"

"Because mothers and daughters have been doing the same thing forever. I see her more than you. Trust me, Shan, she's fine. I've been there, I'd know if it was something else. Talk to her, it might help. Talk, not fight." He finished listing the weapons in the car. "Clear?"

Shan nodded. "Clear. I'm sorry."

"Not a concern." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead." Get some rest. That's an order."

"Watch your back," she said.

"You know I do. It's going to be a long season," Wade said. She believed him.

You can find out where to buy this book here.

**S. A. Hoag** is a sci-fi fanatic, amateur astronomer, and life-long book hoarder. She lives in the desert, where it easier to look at the stars and find some quiet. When she's tired of the quiet, there is music, and coffee. The book even has a soundtrack. She is quick to point out, while the romantic elements of the story are subtle, there wouldn't be much of a story without them.

You can find more about S. A. here:

Website Facebook

# Project Hell by Felicity Kates

# About Project Hell

She was just what the doctor didn't order. 1000 years after Earth has been devastated by a viral plague, the few survivors turn to genetic engineering and advanced robotics to ensure the future of the human race. But not everyone is happy with artificial life living amongst humans, least of all Peyton Chase, a doctor with a harrowing past. When he's 'gifted' with a state-of-the-art companion that he can't send back, Peyton is far from pleased. She's sentient. She's sexy. She's everything he doesn't want complicating his life. He nicknames her Hell. She nicknames him a lot of unladylike things, at least in her mind. Because there are rules to a relationship like theirs. Master and Slave. She's supposed to obey him in all things. But if that's true, why can't she stop meddling in his life? Unfortunately, time is running out for Hell. Her own desperate past is about to catch up to her with deadly results.

# Excerpt of Project Hell

**_Chapter 1_**

UNEXPECTED GIFTS

_Deliverance Colony. New Earth resettlement project, year 31._

__

**" _W_** hat the hell is this shit?" Peyton Chase eyed the coffin in his living room, not bothering to close the front door behind him. Setting his bags of food on the floor, he walked over to the opaque white, glossy cargo box and stared at the black logo.

_The Factory_.

He shook his head as he glanced at the blinking readout on his hand-held tablet. _Delivered as ordered. Please accept with your thumbprint._

Fuck. He hadn't ordered anything from 'The Factory'. He would _never_ order anything for personal use from 'The Factory', not even if his life depended on it.

"Jared. Get your piece of shit ass in here right now, you stupid son-of-a-bitch," he called out as he instructed his tablet to scan the box. The environmental sensors positioned throughout Deliverance Dome's geodesic habitat were designed to detect viral contagions, but after the outbreak two years prior, it didn't hurt to be careful.

As if on cue, Jared entered the doorway, his brows raised in a feigned innocence that confirmed Peyton's suspicions about who had authorized the unexpected delivery.

"Yeah, man?" Jared said. He glanced at the box, the shit-eating grin teasing his lips widening into a full blown smile. "Hey, how about that?" He placed a carton of supplies next to Peyton's bags and straightened. "Looks like you got a delivery from The Factory. I wonder what it could be?"

The urge to throttle him twitched in Peyton's fingers as he turned to his longtime friend. "A Doll? A damned Doll?" He tossed his tablet onto the oblong box, letting his anger fill his voice. Scan completed, the outlined image of the package's contents was clear to see on the flat screen readout. No contamination existed, but the box contained hell just the same.

Jared raised his hands and backed away, his smile slipping. "Now wait a minute. You did admit you were lonely, right?"

"I was drunk, you jackass," Peyton said, feeling a hangover-sized headache coming on. He rubbed his fingers against his temples.

He'd indulged far too much that night two weeks ago, sitting in Jared's cramped living quarters and sharing a bottle of the Dome's home-stilled whisky. Amongst other things, they'd discussed the usefulness of Jared's android sex doll, Bambi, as she went about her task of tidying up his place. The serene smile on her face never slipped. Her artificial intelligence ensured domestic duties of every kind were completed efficiently and without complaint. But it was the blankness in her eyes and the way she mimicked expressions that Peyton couldn't get past. She was a gross distortion of the real thing. A mockery of life. Useful in sharing the workload, and Jared seemed happy with her. But had Peyton ever said he wanted a Doll of his own? No goddamned way.

"Yeah?" Jared said. He stopped backing away and leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's been two years, Peyton. You need to move on with your life. Get your grumpy ass laid before your dick falls off. Everyone's worried about you—"

"Everyone? Does everyone know about this?" He gestured at the box as the realization hit him. _Not Aunty Jo. Please, God, do not let my Aunt Joanna be involved in this asinine plot._

"Well, maybe." Jared shrugged. "Aunty Jo did ask around for donations to add to the pot to get you a premium model."

"Holy Christ." Peyton groaned. He picked up the tablet and tossed it at Jared. "Send it back. Get this thing out of my place and send it the hell back. I don't need a goddamned sex doll."

Jared shook his head and placed the tablet on top of the box again. "No go, bro. Next transport from the Arkopolis isn't until Thursday afternoon and you know it. She's yours."

"Like hell she is. You ordered her. You keep her."

Jared laughed. "Think I don't know what an ungrateful dick you are? Her delivery thumbprint is keyed to you, dumbass. You're the only one who can wake her from stasis."

"Fucking perfect." Peyton growled, his jaw clenching tight. "That DNA database is supposed to be for research." The genetic code of the entire colony was kept on file as a record in case all else failed in the quest to save humanity from extinction. But there wasn't any point in arguing the fact that he was stuck with a box in his room, at least until the shippers came back for it in three days. That didn't mean he had to put up with Jared taking up space too, however. "Get your stupid ass out of my place," he snapped. "I don't need a goddamned intervention."

"Yeah. 'Cause you're just fine, right?" Jared said. His gaze darted around the sparse apartment, full of heated words they'd shared over Peyton's life choices. He shook his head, his frustration clear in the tightness of the movement. "Whatever," he said and backed out of the room with a stiff shrug. "Enjoy her, man. I chose her especially for you," he called out as he turned to leave. "You can thank me later. Grumpy dickhead." Jared slapped the external release button and the door hissed shut.

"Meddling piece of shit," Peyton muttered into the silence filling his living room. Familiar silence. Empty silence. A comfortable void the box threatened to breach with its robotic occupant inside.

A Factory-made fuck doll.

Avoiding the container, he headed for a doorway on the left instead. Light flickered on as he entered his workroom, illuminating his steel-grey sanctuary filled with carefully organized shelves of mechanical items in need of repair. He settled into his comfortable chair at the worktable with an angry thump.

Goddamn Jared Jar-head and his crusade to fix everything. Buying him a sex doll. Of all the stupid things to go and waste hard-earned trade credits on. And Aunty Jo was in on it too. Hell. Why was he surprised by that? His elderly aunt had never known what boundaries were, let alone respected them. She'd undoubtedly pop by unannounced at some point to see how Peyton liked the gift. And take a strip off him when she discovered he wasn't keeping it.

Shit.

Just what he didn't need. Another guilt trip "pep" talk.

_"Why do you insist on hiding in the rafters, Peyton? You aren't a bat. Come down and live with the rest of us. No one blames you for what happened."_

"No one, my ass," he muttered into the silence. No one but him, and the fifty-odd dead souls he'd had to cremate under quarantine conditions, while hoping and praying his vaccination held true and no one else got sick.

It was too hard to face the sadness in everyone's eyes, the empty places at the mess hall tables. Far easier to live on his own up in the modified storage rooms he called home.

He picked up the precision laser instrument he used to remove metal corrosion from where he'd left it on the table earlier. Choosing a mechanical limb from the pile awaiting his attention, he began working.

After a few passes of the tool, the hum and flick of the laser dissolved the corrosion, leaving behind silvery, unblemished steel. The angry knot inside him slowly melted as well. This was the kind of work he enjoyed. Removing decay, rebuilding, making something old new again.

_A damn sex doll. In his living room._

He tossed the metal arm he worked on and blindly snatched up another. They were taking over. More robots existed on New Earth than humans, especially in Deliverance colony. He'd gone from being a physician to a robotics technician. The only good thing about that was robots never died. People, on the other hand, left a hole behind. An empty ache that never healed.

But did that make him lonely?

Who wasn't lonely?

With a three to one ratio of men to women amongst the survivors struggling to repopulate the Earth, finding a life mate of the opposite sex was an idea of the past. Most people settled into communal relationships with multiple partners instead of just one.

Sarah had been special, the love they'd shared unique.

Missing her was something a quick fuck with a willing _machine_ was never going to fix.

A sex doll might work for Jared and some of the others, but it wouldn't work for him. A Doll wasn't the answer he needed. She wasn't Sarah, no matter how well put together she might be.

And he sure as hell wasn't opening that damn box to see.

**

**T** wo hours later he stood in front of the oblong box, contemplating the tablet in hand that would give him the activation instructions. Maybe he could rewire it to explode?

_Ideal companion, my ass._

_"I chose her just for you."_ Right. What did Jar-head know about what he liked?

He'd look because he wanted to see how far The Factory had come in their "products". He'd pick it apart is what he'd do, and utilize all the information for his own uses. And after he picked the design to pieces, he'd put it back together and assign it to assist someone else. Then he'd still be fulfilling his obligation to Deliverance Dome's twenty-seven remaining residents. They'd establish a foothold for humanity on the northern portion of the New Western continent, he'd see to that.

The ecological catastrophe that had wiped out the once multi-billion populous of Earth had left the planet ravaged even a thousand years after the final plagues had finished. The ecosystem remained contaminated with residual toxins that made the environment barely hospitable for humans. A situation that the eco-reclaiming project needed to permanently fix, because there sure as hell wasn't anywhere else in the galaxy that humanity could exist.

Who could have guessed all of those centuries ago that the Arkology ships sent into space to find new homes for humanity would instead discover that the only earth-sized planet remotely habitable within realistically achievable distance was Earth itself? Or that the colonization technology packed on board the ships would be the lifeboat needed to re-seed the homeworld long after the planet had become silent and the cities crumbled to dust.

They needed to do everything they could to fight extinction, and with only approximately three thousand humans left in the known universe, it was a fight they needed to win.

Who was he to stand in the way of the future of humanity?

The Doll would be useful, helping out with any number of back-breaking chores needed to keep the Dome's soil reclaiming project running. And using a precious premium piece of machinery from The Factory to literally shovel shit only made the idea of her working as part of their team even sweeter. A grin twitched his lips as he pressed his thumb to the outline on his tablet and accepted receipt of the delivery.

Immediately, a new message appeared in bold text on the screen:

_Congratulations, Peyton Chase!_

_We hope you will enjoy your new Lumacore Industries, Companion Class Synthetic Human. At Lumacore, we ensure the highest quality in robotic assistants._

_To awaken your sleeping beauty from suspended animation, place a kiss upon her loving lips._

The grin fell from his own lips as he glanced through the message a second time, certain he must have been mistaken.

_Sleeping beauty? Loving lips?_

"Jesus. They can't be serious." He tossed the tablet onto his nearby couch as the lid of the box slid open with a hiss.

Cool cryogenic-suspension vapor pooled outward from the container. He wafted it aside with his hand, helping it to dissipate into the warmth of his living room, and studied the so-called sleeping beauty in question.

"Well, shit." he muttered. Either there hadn't been much selection or, despite having grown up together, Jared didn't know his tastes very well.

In terms of physical appeal, she was not what he had expected. For one thing, he preferred women with dark hair. This Doll's fair hair, slightly damp from being in suspension, fell in lanky strands across her shoulders and against the inside of the metal container she'd been shipped in. For another, though her body remained wrapped mummy-style in semi-translucent protective covering, he could tell her waif-like torso sported small breasts, not the more-than-abundant handfuls he was accustomed to with Sarah. Her legs were slender, her hips sleek, and her skin almost deathly pale. For a sex doll, she wasn't the generic Factory model he was accustomed to seeing around the Domes. Certainly not the super-sexualized playmate Jared had purchased a year ago, with breasts as large as melons and an artificial, never-ending smile.

This Doll was compact. Almost utilitarian. An intriguing change from the norm. In fact, she looked damn near human and disturbingly corpse-like, lying on the floor in her coffin-like container. Not a breath rose in her chest. Not an eyelash fluttered. He'd seen death more times than he cared to remember and looking at this delicate creature lying there devoid of life made his gut clench.

But the stillness she radiated spoke not of true lifelessness, but of anticipation.

She waited.

For him.

Well, not necessarily _him_. Anyone who'd purchased her could awaken her from her cocoon of suspended animation sleep. All it took, apparently, was a fucking kiss. A ridiculous activation mechanism if there ever was one. Whose asinine idea at The Factory had that been?

He grimaced. If only it had been so easy to awaken Sarah when cradling her lifeless body in his arms. Trapped within his environmental protection suit, he hadn't even been able to kiss her goodbye or risk exposing himself to the virus that had killed her, the Karezza Idiopathic Syndrome—or 'K.I.S. of Death' virus, as it had been nicknamed.

A kiss to awaken.

A kiss to kill.

Did any of the geneticists at the Arkopolis understand the irony?

Would they even care?

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the task at hand, letting cool logic ease his anger.

This Doll was not Sarah. She did not look like Sarah. Could not _be_ Sarah. And he didn't want her to be. All he needed to do was activate her so she could help the colonists survive. End of story.

Opening his eyes, he focused on her lips.

They looked very pink against her pale skin. Soft. Slightly bowed, pressed together in asymmetrical imperfection. The bottom one was a touch too full in comparison to the top. A subtle detail that gave her life-like appearance credibility.

And, although pale, her pallor did not have the waxy sheen of synthetic-skin, nor did her hair seem coarse. The wisps drying about her heart-shaped face had formed delicate curls. He bent forward and brushed a strand with his finger. It felt soft, like real hair, or at least a high quality cellulose construct.

Interesting.

Technology at The Factory had advanced considerably in the quest to create artificial life. Was she one of the new Bio-roids, the synthesis of human genetics and technology he'd heard rumors about? Couldn't be. They were still in the idea stage. Or had been when Sarah had worked with The Factory's genetics team. This was just a high-tech Doll, even if an impeccably made one.

Despite his reluctance to be impressed by anything Factory-made, he shook his head and let out a low whistle as he dropped to his knees beside the container to get a better look at the specimen inside.

Her cheek was smooth and soft to his touch. Still damp and cool from being in suspension, but warming beneath his fingers. Jesus. How many credits had Jared and the others pooled together to get their hands on such an advanced android?

A shadow of guilt crept over him at how he'd reacted to the idea of their gift. He didn't want or need their concern. It weighed him down, made him feel raw inside when he'd rather not feel anything. His conscience twisted as he imagined the look of disappointment Aunty Jo would have when she discovered he'd rejected her attempt at seeing him happy again.

Happiness. What an overrated emotion. Numbness was so much better. The kind he found from the predictable routine of getting up every day, doing his work, and pretending it all meant nothing more than the brief solace he found at the bottom of a bottle of whisky.

He stared at the Doll's peaceful, lifelike form and the illusion she represented.

Fuck happy. He didn't need happiness. But who was he to stand in the way of everyone else's? Aunty Jo deserved better than the bitterness filling his soul.

Damnit. Maybe he should just keep the Doll himself.

He could get her to do chores around the colony and pretend to be happy with the arrangement as well as anyone. And it might stop all the worried looks and _concern_ over his need to be alone.

He could always turn her off when he'd had enough of her invasion of his privacy, a definite bonus when compared to living with people, who never seemed to shut the fuck up, especially when he wanted to be left in peace.

But as for Jared's idea that androids were an ideal solution for lonely nights in a world with far too few humans? Even with her realistic modeling, Peyton doubted he could bring himself to ever go that far. Nothing could numb the ache he felt inside when he thought of Sarah. Not whisky, not a quick fuck, not work and not a goddamned Doll.

A quick peck would do it. Awaken her from stasis. Then he could get her started with helping out the colony and make everyone fucking _happy_. And he could get on with finding the best way numb his own life.

He brought his face close to hers. A subtle, sweet scent tickled his nose as he brushed his mouth against her lips.

They were soft. And warm. Really warm. Human body temperature warm. Slightly damp from the dew left by cryo-thawing, and they parted to his gentle pressure with a sigh.

The sound traveled from his head down to his toes, then arced back up and slammed into his brain with a jolt. His pulse jacked, beating in an answering rhythm to the vibration her moan created.

_What the fuck?_

Shocked, he grasped the edge of the box as her mouth moved beneath his. A questing tongue flicked out and slipped past his lips. She tasted sweet _._ Fragrant, like her honey scent, which filled his mind.

He jerked backwards, breaking the connection.

A flicker of recognition stirred deep inside him. Awareness that his affection-starved body was not only reacting to the feel of her soft lips, but that his racing pulse and the sudden stiffness of his cock were the result of a pheromone-activated imprinting sequence flooding through his veins.

"Hell," he said, and backed away, his mind racing to keep ahead of his pulse. "Deactivate," he demanded. He needed to shut this shit down right now.

But that didn't stop her fluttering lashes or the shudder that passed through her body as the Doll strained within her restrictive wrappings to suck in a gasp of air with a cough.

You can buy this book or find out more information here.

I wrote PROJECT HELL because I love science fiction (Doctor Who, Firefly, Star Wars, Star Trek, Blade Runner) and romance (the steamier the better). The desire to combine the two genres was something which sparked my imagination with questions like, "What would happen if humanity was faced with extinction and android companions became the norm? Would it be possible for someone to find true love in such a world, even if their mate wasn't human?" Almost ten years later, I am about to find out ☺ The exciting conclusion to this five-part series is due to be released at the end of July 2016. I hope you will enjoy this humorous, intriguing, sexy journey to find true love as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Felicity Kates, otherwise known as Kate Reedwood, is a mild-mannered manager by day. At night, she trades in her high heels for bunny slippers and lets her imagination run wild. A trained artist and writer, she combines her love of storytelling with designing expressive book covers to create a unique product. Felicity enjoys writing bold, sexy stories that combine humor with strong characters who know what they want and aren't afraid to go get it. Every story is an emotional journey where the characters must struggle to find their happily ever after. But they do always reach it in the end, no matter the time or place in the universe. She lives off of coffee and dreams and enjoys going for walks along the shores of Lake Ontario, taking pictures of whatever catches her eye. A romantic at heart, she loves to snuggle under a blanket with a good book to warm up the cold Canadian winters. When not writing, editing, or designing book covers, she can most often be found enjoying the quiet company of her husband and son, whom she loves very, very much.

You can find out more about Felicity here:

Website Newsletter Facebook Reader Group Facebook Author Page Pinterest Goodreads

# Curse of the Brimstone Contract by Corrina Lawson

# About Curse of the Brimstone Contract

_M agic—and love—balanced on the tip of a needle..._

_The Steampunk Detectives, Book 1_

Magic existed at the fringes until Prince Albert discovered he was a mage. Now he and others like him are leading a revolution in steam technology that's held tight in the grip of the upper classes.

A man of half-Indian heritage, rejected by his upper-crust, mage-gifted family, Gregor Sherringford lives in working-class London, investigating cases involving magic among the lower classes. But he's never met a client quite like spirited, stubborn Joan Krieger.

Joan's dream was to lead a fashion revolution designing women's clothing suited to the new technology. But when her richest client mysteriously dies outside her shop, it deals a mortal blow to her dreams.

She hopes the handsome, enigmatic detective can prove the death a magical murder. She never expected a dark plot would be woven right into the fabric of her family. Or that cracking the case will mean merging gifts, minds—and hearts—with the one man who could be her partner in every way. If they survive the release of a soul-binding curse.

Warning: This novel contains an intelligent, repressed detective and a woman who won't take no for an answer, not when she hires him...and not when she falls in love with him.

# Excerpt from Curse of the Brimstone Contract

_C ome walk with me into a world where magic and steam technology work hand in hand in Victorian London...._

_Joan Krieger's dream to lead a fashion revolution designing women's clothing suited to the new steam technology died with her richest client. Only the handsome, enigmatic detective Gregor Sherringford can help her unravel a mystery that threatens not only her livelihood but her soul._

Joan marched down the alley, berating herself for being so foolish as to come here alone and without an appointment. But such was her need that she would pull at any thread, no matter how frayed.

That included barging in on this mysterious "consulting detective" who headquartered his business in an office off an alley in the worst part of London.

The bills for Krieger & Sims's cancelled orders were due in thirty days. There was no time to observe all the niceties.

She stopped and studied a brick wall. Her eyes watered from the strong smell of the refuse pushed to the corners of the alley. Had the cook's daughter not supplied directions on exactly how to locate the entrance to Gregor Sherringford's office, Joan would have walked right past it.

The brick wall, she had been assured, was an illusion. True magic.

Bracing herself to touch something magical for the first time, Joan pushed at the outline of a bricked-up window. At the touch of her gloved fingers, the brick wall shimmered and vanished, revealing a heavy wooden door with an iron knocker.

She blinked. How _clever_.

She pounded on the knocker, but, clumsy from nerves, she slammed her middle finger between the door and the knocker. She winced, less from the stab of pain and more at her carelessness and the smudge she had made on the expensive—and borrowed— leather gloves.

No one answered.

She knocked again, more insistent this time. Voices echoed down the alley from laborers gathered at the entrance. She caught the whispers. What was a well-dressed lady doing on this side of town beating on a brick wall?

_I am on a fool's errand, of course._

She adjusted her hairpiece out of nerves. One of the pins had come loose already. The tightness of the unfamiliar high collar tickled her throat. The laborers had mistaken her for a lady of class or, at least, an adventurer of some sort. Modeled after clothing she'd seen female explorers wearing in the newspapers, this was more breastplate armor than a proper lady's dress. Joan could have worn her one good dress but if she was going to toss convention aside, why not do so fully?

Joan closed her hand around the heavy, heart-shaped silver pendant that hung around her neck, a gift from her late grandmother. At least the pendant, engraved with a Roman warrior woman's face, went with the dress, even if gold would have matched the brown better. She must pass as someone of means. Sherringford had rescued a lady in his last case. Therefore, he took them seriously. She doubted he would take a Jewish seamstress as seriously, so this was her own version of an illusion. The pendant was her talisman of courage.

But ladies were also, apparently, a target. She glanced at the laborers again. Joan pounded on the door. _Answer, blast you!_ The door swung open but there was no one there. Another illusion?

She stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her with a whoosh of air. She started, turned and saw that the door had a hinge at the top that was rigged to a pulley. This was no magic. She had been let in by a machine.

That made sense, given the person on whom she was calling.

She walked down the short hallway to a room that threw a pocket of light onto the floor. Heat engulfed her, a certain sign this place was heated by mage coal. How did a detective living in this section of London afford such a luxury? Unsure and off-balance, she hesitated to step inside the room.

"For hell's sake, you had better be the devil himself to interrupt my work!" a voice boomed.

"I am sorry," Joan snapped as she walked into the room. "I seem to have quite forgotten to wear my horns."

She bit her tongue. All her prepared speeches, all her rehearsed pleas for help, and this was how she'd begun? Truly, her nerves were at breakpoint. A man stared rudely at her, though she supposed he had cause. Still, she could not help but stare back. She had anticipated an eccentric. She had not expected him to be so pleasing to the eye. There were faint lines around his mouth, his brown hair was thick and full, and his skin was an olive-brown shade that set off his dark eyes nicely. His clean-shaven face revealed a jaw that hinted at a strong character. Gregor Sherringford seemed a champion, indeed.

He scowled at her. Would this paragon throw her out?

She glanced down at his clothes, which were more in keeping with what she'd been told to expect of him by the cook and her daughter. A scientist as well as a detective, they had said. He wore a stained leather apron, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and something yellow had discolored the tips of the fingers on one hand.

If he were a detective, truly, then perhaps he would be curious enough to let her speak her piece.

"So, you are not the devil, though you may be as much trouble," Sherringford finally said.

_As much trouble as you_ , she wanted to say, but this time held her tongue. "Good morning, Mr. Sherringford. I do apologize for my intrusion." _He must listen to her._ "My name is Joan Krieger. I wish to contract for your services as an investigator." She offered her hand like a man would do when conducting a business arrangement.

He hesitated a second and then clasped her hand and shook it. He had a firm grip but his intent stare discomfited her. She had the distinct impression he could see all the way through her. Yet, to her, he seemed to contain endless depths of mystery. She'd met many men through her work but none like this one, who stirred something so deep inside her.

"How did you hear of me and how did you find me?" He scowled again.

"A mutual acquaintance told me of you and your office."

"Who?"

"That would be indiscreet to reveal, sir." The cook's daughter had told her how to find this place but Joan had no idea how Sherringford would react to that information.

"And is it discreet to interrupt a man in the middle of his work?" He stated the question in a whisper, almost as if he'd directed it at himself, so she did not answer. "Your presence here raises many questions," he added in a normal tone.

"Yes, I have many questions, sir. My hope is that you will provide the answers." She tilted her chin up.

"I hardly qualify as 'sir', any more than you are a lady, Miss Krieger, despite your efforts to appear so."

She flushed. "I wished only to appear as someone who needs your skills and has the means to pay for them."

Sherringford snorted. Truly, that was a nice change from his scowling. She wondered what he'd look like when he smiled. Charming, she guessed, and wondered if anyone had been lucky enough to be charmed by him. Probably not, as his biting tongue likely drove them away.

"Very well. Stay if you can keep quiet while I finish the work you've interrupted. Refrain from any complaints. I well know this isn't fit for a lady's sight. But perhaps, not being a lady, you will not care about that."

She felt her face grow even warmer. Now he sneered at her.

"Your room seems not only unfit for a lady but for anyone. The temperature is ungodly warm, Mr. Sherringford."

Oh, dear Lord, another snap of her suddenly waspish tongue. She had antagonized him again.

"Ungodly? Some say that my work and I both fit that description." "I'd call you and your work fascinating." Unexpectedly, he smiled.

She blinked. Oh yes, his smile definitely was charming.

"Now, be quiet while I finish," he said.

Mortified, she vowed to not say another word. She took in Sherringford's workshop. The rectangular room was filled with tables shoved against all four walls, with yet another table in the center. Metal pipes, wheels, gears and other objects she could not identify covered the tables. Beakers with tubes going in and out were set up in one corner, and unlit burners nestled underneath.

Next to the beaker contraption, a wooden box with a blinking light made whirring sounds. She had never seen anything like it. It was possible these contraptions were part of some magical ritual, but it seemed more likely they were merely machinery, like the door. The cook's daughter had said that Sherringford was familiar with mages, not that he was one. The door illusion argued otherwise, but perhaps that was commissioned work. She had heard mages could be hired, if one had enough money and knew the right people.

Overhead, pipes ran along the ceiling. Some were connected to the equipment on the tables, though she thought perhaps their valves were closed. It was hard to tell from where she was standing.

The room smelled vaguely of rotten eggs and fog. At least it was well lit. A large circular apparatus hung from the ceiling. She hesitated to call it a chandelier, as it looked so strange with all those pipes and gears whirling, but it served the same function.

"You seem struck dumb, Miss Krieger," Sherringford said. "Such an interesting change from when you arrived."

"It was you who asked me to remain silent." Perhaps her arrival had discomfited him too. It was nice to think so. "This is a most unusual room. Wherever do you sleep, Mr. Sherringford?"

She regretted the question as soon as she asked. That was most impolite and hardly better than sniping at the man.

"As it happens, there is a small room in the basement that serves my needs."

She nodded. At least he did not seem to have taken serious offense.

He waved his hand at her. "I must finish now." He bent to a device on the center table. On one side of the thing, a stylus was set over a handwritten note. A second stylus, twin to the first, perched over a blank piece of paper.

Sherringford muttered to himself and pushed a lever. The pair of styluses burst into sudden movement. He smiled thinly, watching his contraption work.

The stylus over the blank paper fell out of the brace holding it upright.

Joan clearly heard Sherringford curse, which she ignored, as a polite person should. She tried to reconcile Lady Sarah's protector, someone who had stood up to a lord, with this man puttering around his gadgets and gears. The two versions seemed like ill-cut pieces of clothing stitched together.

He seemed to be copying something with his contraption, or at least trying to do so. She had adapted something similar for the shop so the work of the seamstresses would be uniform. The question was why he needed to do this. Was it part of some other investigation?

Sherringford picked up a small circular clasp with a tiny gear at one end and slid it down the stylus.

This clasp was too big, and the stylus fell off again. He cursed once more. Well, it sounded like a curse, though it was in a language unfamiliar to her. Perhaps one of the Indian dialects? His skin tone was darker than that of most Londoners. Being Indian might explain why he lived in this section of London, even if he did perform services for the nobility.

But his ancestry was of no concern to her. All that mattered was whether he could help. And it seemed he could not help until he finished this, but she did not have time to wait all day. Someone would notice her absence.

His fingertips tapped the table, obviously looking for a smaller clasp to fit the stylus better. He would never find anything in that mess. She looked down. Small objects could easily fall off tables, and circular ones tended to roll. She knelt, no easy feat in her stiff dress. She saw a glint of brass almost hidden behind the table leg.

"There." She pointed.

"There what?" he snapped. But he followed where she had pointed. He saw the gleam, knelt and carefully lifted the metal piece. It was a clasp, just as she had guessed. And it turned out to be the one he was looking for.

After he had placed the newfound piece securely around the stylus, Sherringford turned to her.

_"Humphf,"_ he said, as if that meant something.

_"Humphf,"_ she answered back.

He raised an eyebrow. "If you will turn around, you will see there is a door. It leads to a room where we can discuss your problem. Wait and I will be with you in a moment."

She wanted to protest that she would rather watch him finish his fascinating project, but she had been forward enough already. She had obtained her first objective. He was going to hear her out.

She turned toward the corner of the room where he had pointed. What she had taken as part of the wall was actually a hidden door. Unlike the real illusion that concealed the outside door, this one was simply a clever design, with the doorknob recessed and hidden if one did not look carefully.

Was Sherringford a mage of some sort? She had never met a wielder of magic, at least not knowingly. She had no idea what one would be like. Of course, she had never met a consulting detective before either. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went.

Joan pushed the door open.

This room was as different from the workshop as a lordly manor was to the debtor's prison.

Bookshelves covered the walls, their dark color matched by the huge throw rug on the floor that was decorated with swirling Oriental-style designs against a black background. In the center sat a comfortable sitting couch with matching chairs on either side.

Gregor Sherringford was not as indifferent to his surroundings as he had first appeared. She could certainly picture him here, curled up with a book, his dark hair falling in front of his eyes. A pleasing image.

She heard the door close behind her. She turned, her face full of color. She had no reason to be embarrassed, but she was.

"Why did you not tell me to wait here at the beginning, sir?" she asked.

"It is interesting to see how people react to the workroom. If they are appalled or otherwise react badly, then they're not people worthy of my time." He hung his leather apron on a coatrack and rolled down his sleeves. "And I was in the middle of an experiment."

"I do not much like trusting my future to someone who tests me like that."

"And I don't like being interrupted by someone ill-mannered enough to snap at me. If you wish to leave, you know where the door is located."

She reluctantly shook her head and kept a firm grip on her tongue. If she could keep her temper with her father, she could keep it now. "What I wish is to have had no need to come to you, sir, but that is sadly not the case."

"I'm clearly your choice of last resort. That would not be unusual among my clients." He smiled thinly, as he had a moment ago in his workroom. "Please, stop glaring at me, Miss Krieger, and have a seat. We will both be more comfortable. Also, no more calling me sir. Mr. Sherringford will do."

"I was not..." She cleared her throat. She had not been glaring. She had been studying him. In this setting, he belonged. The softer light burnished his hair and skin, as some silks glowed in certain candlelight. Now, she could well imagine him a gallant romantic hero as well as a champion. "I suppose I _was_ glaring. My apologies. I have never done anything like this before. It has me off-balance." She clutched her pendant tight as she sat down. "How much do you charge, sir?"

"That depends," he said.

"On how much I can afford to pay?" she asked. He drew his eyebrows together. She had angered him somehow. Again.

"It depends on your problem. I have valuable work, as you saw. I dislike interrupting it."

"So it must be a problem that can be solved quickly?" Trying to sort what he meant was like trying to get a proper measurement off a squirming customer.

"On the contrary, only a complicated problem would be worth setting aside my other matters. As to the fee, if it presents a proper challenge, I will waive it."

"Excuse me? Usually, more work means a higher fee, not a lower one."

"So I have been told. But those are my terms." He looked at her and opened his palm, clearly signaling the next move was hers. "You definitely seem like a person who might have a worthy case. Thus my interest in hearing you out."

She had an unsettling feeling that he was as interested in her and why she had come to him for help as he was in the problem itself. To him, she might be like one of his experiments, something to be examined and studied. Did he have feelings underneath his cool demeanor?

"I am not certain if my problem is complicated. My mother believes I could be imagining it. Or even losing my mind. Yet there is still a woman dead, and I want to know how she died."

He held up a hand. "Slowly, Miss Krieger. We'll get to the dead woman in a moment. Let us go back to that harsh comment from your mother. What led to her saying that?"

"Because even sometimes I believe I am losing my mind. The events seem impossible." Time to get the matter out on the table. "Have you heard of Lady Grey's death?"

"Something about an accident with a steam carriage?" he asked.

"I saw her accident clearly, Mr. Sherringford. She was wearing a scarf I had designed and that scarf wrapped itself around the back wheel as if it had a life of its own. It seemed no accident to me."

Sherringford abandoned his languid pose and sat up straight. "Is that so?" "I will swear to what I witnessed. And other witnesses saw the same."

"But not your mother?"

"No."

"The explanation could be as simple as a sudden rush of air from the steam carriage," he said.

"Air that caused the scarf to wrap tight around a wheel? I think not."

"And thus your mother calls your mental state into question."

She nodded curtly.

He relaxed back in the chair. "Miss Krieger, this is about the prettiest problem someone has brought to me in an age. I must hear the full story. Pray elaborate."

Joan cleared her throat. That sounded like a compliment. "Where do I start? What do you need to know?"

"Start with the beginning. Leave nothing out. Let me decide what's important." He closed his eyes, put his fingers in a steeple and sat back in his chair.

Yes, she was right. He belonged in this room as much as in the laboratory.

"The beginning." She took a deep breath. "My family runs a well-known tailor and seamstress shop in West London, as you must have guessed."

"Krieger & Sims, yes. You are a unique shop. It is unusual to find ladies' and gentlemen's attire under the same roof."

"Yes, it is." He was familiar with the business. Good. But if he wanted the beginning, she would go back to that. Going over the familiar would give her time to gather her scattered wits. "My grandfather, Mr. Hans Sims, began the tailor shop, while my grandmother, Rebecca, ran the section for women's clothing. When their daughter, my mother, married my father, she took over managing the seamstress shop, though my father is in charge of the overall business and has the final say in matters, of course. Unfortunately, for the past decade, my father's mind has not worked as it should."

"And this is part of why your own mother questions your sanity?"

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth.

"Elaborate on your father's condition," Sherringford ordered.

"Is that necessary? I haven't come for a solution to my father's difficulties."

"I need to know all I can about you and your surroundings. All information is

important."

She set her jaw. "My father's wits often fail, and he becomes unaware of his

surroundings. He also can fall into fits. These fits begin with verbal threats, can move to physical violence, and generally end in a trance state that can last anywhere from minutes to hours. Doctors have not been able to help us." She stared down at the carpet, waiting for Sherringford's response.

"Go on," he said in a quiet voice.

She stayed focused on the carpet. "My mother and our business manager, Samuel Roylott, handle our assistant tailors, our customers and the bookkeeping. Mr. Roylott, of course, deals directly with the male customers. I hire the seamstresses, watch over their work and contribute to designs."

"Your arrangement clearly works," he said. "You make very sturdy overcoats. I had one. It took much longer to rip in the seams than my previous coat."

"It should not have ripped in the seams at all!"

"Well, it might have had something to do with my using it to dangle off a roof."

She leaned forward in her chair. "When did you dangle from a rooftop?"

"Not important." He waved away the digression. "But this unfortunate circumstance with your father has been an ongoing problem, and you have handled it until now. But somehow Lady Grey's death has made it worse?"

"Lady Grey's death was just the latest and most severe blow. We began to have customer issues about three months ago," she said. "They led to financial difficulties, which led to—"

"Stop," he said. "Tell me about the customer issues."

"They have no relevance to Lady Grey's death."

"Miss Krieger, you have gone to considerable effort to come to me." He tapped the edge of his armchair. "I decide what is relevant and what is not."

She inclined her head, a tacit admission that he was correct. "It was bad luck. One of our most important customers, the Earl of Southwick's heir, hanged himself with a cravat that we had made as part of his eveningwear." She sighed and wished those seams had ripped like Sherringford's coat. "The earl cut off his business with us because of the association with his son's death. We had already ordered and paid for materials for a number of items for his household. Then his friends canceled orders as well. We took a considerable loss."

"I expect so. And you thought Lady Grey's patronage could make up for this loss?"

"Yes," Joan answered. "During a regular fitting, she saw one of my personal sketches. I have some, um, unusual ideas about what women should wear. Some call them indecent. I call them practical. Lady Grey liked them and asked me to make her driving clothes."

He arched an eyebrow. "Something like what you are wearing?"

"No, this design was inspired by those who travel by dirigibles. Lady Grey's driving attire was very different and was made to move, not protect."

"Describe it," he ordered.

She did, in detail, down to Lady Grey's bloomers. He had said not to leave out anything.

"Those are radical designs indeed, Miss Krieger. And Lady Grey was wearing them when she died. Unfortunate."

"Very."

"And if she had lived, she would have told all her rich and open-minded friends about the designs, thus solving your financial difficulties."

"Exactly."

"And now that is out of the question."

"Yes."

"May I point out that if I prove Lady Grey's death was murder, not an accident, and murder via a scarf that you made, Miss Krieger, that's not going to improve your financial situation. It would possibly make it worse."

"I want the truth, Mr. Sherringford. And I want justice for Lady Grey. It will not bring her back, but she deserves that, at least. If our business cannot be saved, well, that must be faced. But I will not sit around and wonder why. I must know."

"And there is nothing else causing you difficulty?"

She thought of Milverton's offer of marriage. "Nothing that pertains to Lady Grey. My other problem is a private matter."

"Nothing is private now that you have come to me." He held out his hand and opened his palm. "If you want answers, there can be no secrets here."

"Will those secrets leave this room?"

"Not without your consent." This was the third time he had prodded her to provide more personal information.

She supposed trusting him was as irrational as the instant dislike she had had for Colonel Moran in that short encounter after Lady Grey's death. But trust Sherringford, she did.

"My father has arranged a marriage for me with Sir August Milverton."

"You are just full of the most interesting revelations, Miss Krieger," he said blandly. "How did that come about?"

Sarcasm or compliment? Joan decided that Sherringford's remarks were both. "Sir August Milverton has been a customer for many years and has occasionally invested money so that we can expand the business. My father trusts him, as does Mr. Roylott. And this is a way to ensure my future."

"Your father, who has insane fits, trusts Sir August Milverton. I cannot imagine why that would give you pause," Sherringford said, definitely being sarcastic now. "He's above your station, not of your faith and at least two decades older."

"Just what I said." A nice summary of her own misgivings, though Sherringford's "above your station" rankled. "You know the man?"

"Only by reputation, which is quite mixed. So he wants you as his long-awaited wife? Well, that is fascinating."

"I thought so," she said, echoing his bland voice.

Sherringford smiled thinly. "And what does Sir August Milverton say about the reasons for his offer?"

"According to my father, he says he cares deeply for me." She blushed.

"And you think he's not infatuated with you? That's not so outside the realm of possibility, Miss Krieger. You are an arresting creature, you know."

What did he mean by that? She cleared her throat. "I know my limits, Mr. Sherringford. I'm not displeasing to the eye, but neither am I beautiful enough to make Sir August behave so rashly. I am no Helen of Troy, no prize. I'm not worth the difficulties inherent in marrying so far out of his class."

"I would not be so sure. Your assets may be hidden among coal but there is a diamond there."

"What does that mean?"

Sherringford made another noise at the back of his throat and waved his hand at her again. "Let's just say you certainly are not without quantifiable assets, Miss Joan Krieger. Still, your point is that you feel Milverton has hidden motives?"

"He must." She closed her hand around the pendant again. "When I expressed my fears to my mother, she said while she preferred me to marry a man of our faith, she believed this could be a good situation. I would always have a home, and my children would have rank and education. She implied I was simply concerned about the expectations of the marriage bed." Joan stared at the floor. "She said that was a natural worry, especially given Milverton's age, but it would be fine."

"Was your mother correct? Is that your main objection?"

_Not if it were you I was marrying._ The thought blurted into her head unbidden. Thank God she had not said it out loud. She felt her whole face grow warm. No doubt she was blushing furiously now. "With Sir August, yes, I am most worried about it."

"Be precise in why you believe that. That you are afraid of him, I can deduce. But a woman who marched into my workshop and demanded help would not be afraid to face a marriage bed under any normal circumstances."

For the first time, Joan was convinced Sherringford was not only listening but truly interested in her answer. Perhaps that was why she felt such a sudden attraction to him. He paid attention.

"My contact with Sir August has been minimal over the years. Men aren't allowed into the women's side of the business. We have spoken briefly a few times. In those moments, he quite literally made my skin crawl, Mr. Sherringford. He looks at me and I feel like an object. He speaks to me not as you are doing, but merely as a master to his pet." She shook her head. "There's something vile about his motives. I feel it. I know it."

"You are saying you sense some underlying menace in him?" Sherringford asked.

She nodded stiffly, preparing to be mocked. "That's not exactly the way I would have said it but, yes, that is accurate."

"Just as you are convinced the scarf decided to murder Lady Grey."

"I cannot speak for the scarf's motives," she snapped.

He snorted. "True enough. But the two feelings are related. You wouldn't be the first person with a touch of the mage gift that allows them to sense danger. In your case, either in the form of a scarf that contains some sort of spell or a suitor with potentially dangerous motives."

Mage gift? A spell? "Magic, sir? You say I have magic? You've lost me." She slumped back in the chair and felt all the blood drain from her face. A mage gift? Never had she considered that.

"It's not so impossible." He smiled, not his thin smile but a true one.

Oh dear, she thought. He was not just charming when he chose to be, he was downright arresting.

You can buy the book or find out more here.

Once upon a time, I checked out a copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ from the library and promptly fell in love with the intelligent, mischievous and enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. When I sat down to write my first steampunk story, the first image of Victorian London that came to mind contained Holmes and Watson dispensing their own brand of justice. I consider my Gregor Sherringford a homage to Holmes, rather than a copy, and I gender-bent my Watson and gave her a profession because, hey, why should the men have all the fun?

Having this novel published was a dream come true and I especially loved this scene because I got to write my own version of "client comes to Holmes for help." Creating my own storyverse where steam technology worked hand in hand with magic and weaving a romance among it all? The icing on the cake.

Corrina is a former newspaper reporter with a degree in journalism from Boston University. A mom of four, she now works from home writing romance novels with a geeky twist and as the Content Director and co-founder of GeekMom.com.

She's also is the co-writer of _GeekMom Book: Projects, Tips and Adventures for Moms and Their 21 st Century Families_.

Her novels include _The Curse of the Brimstone Contract_ , a romantic steampunk mystery; the Galaxy Award-winning and USA Today recognized superhero romance series: _Phoenix Institute_ series _: Phoenix Rising, Luminous, Phoenix Legacy, Ghost Phoenix, Ghosts of Christmas Past_ , and _Phoenix Inheritance._

You can find out more about Corrina here:

Website Facebook Twitter Tumblr

# Bring Me to Ruin by Tess Rider

# About Bring Me to Ruin

_T he Haunted Hollow Book I_

_Love is a force of nature._

The last thing Thea Maloney expects the day after her first love, Gerard Wyatt, is executed for a crime he didn't commit, is a chance to travel to the twenty-second century to a place called the Haunted Hollow. There time is splintered into hundreds of timelines and a savage ghost war has ravaged the planet. One man stands between what remains of the human race and extinction, a man known only as the General. A man who also happens to be another version of Gerard.

Thea's mission in this haunted place is to solve the riddle of the broken timelines and show the General the power of love before he makes a choice that will doom them all. But how do you convince a man who already thinks you're the enemy and who's known only horror his entire life that you're his soul mate?

Raised in the trenches of the Great Ghost War, the General lives and breathes only one thing. Death. His enclave of ghost hunters and refugees is all that's left of the human race and he will do anything to reverse humanity's fate, even if it means rewriting history in a bold gambit to turn back time.

What he doesn't count on is the arrival of Thea Maloney, a woman who makes him feel things he's never experienced before. He knows he should keep his distance from her, but it gets more difficult with every increasingly sensual encounter. Was she sent to seduce and spy on him, or worse, sabotage the enclave from the inside? Or could she be the one person who just might save them all?

# Excerpt of Bring Me to Ruin

CHAPTER ONE

_N ovember 1, 1969 —Radley's Hollow, California_

_Thea, wherever you are, find me!_

"Huh?" Thea Maloney jerked alert at the sound of the voice. His voice. The voice she was never going to hear again. Despite the loud music and crash of chatter all around her, she'd obviously managed to fall into some kind of stupor, but it didn't help that all she dreamed of was him. With renewed vigor, she smacked her shot glass down on the bar's countertop. "Another!"

Blues thundered from the musicians onstage. A thick lick, the bass a driving rhythm, the drums relentless, the guitar screaming. A cover of Nina Simone's profound "Sinnerman." It had been Gerard's favorite song.

Milton Coleridge walked toward her, wiping his hands on an already wet bar towel. He couldn't get to her fast enough. She wanted another drink. Now. Before even the slightest hint of her raging drunk wore off. The music egged her on. Gerard had loved playing this tune. He could wail on the guitar like he was down on his knees, praying to God. _Lord, save me._

But He hadn't. Nope. God had remained determinedly quiet when it came to Gerard's life and just as silent on the topic of his death.

"That's number five, Thea," Cole said, "in less than an hour."

"I know. I know. I said I'd pace myself." She swallowed hard. "It's just, I can't... It won't stop...this ringing in my head. Ever since he..."

Thea reached over the counter and grabbed the closest liquor bottle, some cheap vodka.

A vise clamped over her hand. Cole stared her down, his storm-dark gray eyes locked onto hers. "I'll toss you out of here if you try that again."

"You'd just kick me out on a day like today? Really?" She couldn't stop her lower lip from trembling. Goddammit, she wanted that next shot, but she slunk her way back over the bar and hunched on her stool. She swiped at a single tear that dared to leak from her eye. _No tears_ , he'd told her the last time they spoke. _Not for me. Get on with your life._ Ha! Like that was even possible. He had been her life. Her best friend since childhood. The orphaned boy her family had taken in. The kid she'd built tree forts with and raced bicycles with. The teenager who taught her how to fight back and the reckless fool who'd gotten himself mixed up with a rich girl, a rich girl who ended up murdered. Guess who took the fall? Eight long years of trying to prove his innocence while he toiled away doing hard labor at San Quentin. Eight years of her life lost to a fight she could never win. His life over. Done. Gone. A lonely word, gone. Like watching the chamber fill up with gas, amorphous, deadly. And then he's gone. Dead. Murdered by the state for a crime he did not commit. "Cole, please, just one more. I'm desperate here. It's all I see now when I close my eyes. Last night at the prison."

Cole leaned over the counter, tugging her into a hug. He kissed her hair like a father might. He smelled of aftershave and coffee. For a barman, he rarely drank alcohol. The rough grit of his tweed vest scratched her cheek but she didn't let go of him. The woolly scent and texture comforted somehow. Grounded her. No matter what, despite everything that had happened, she still had him.

"I know, my girl. I know," Cole said, voice gentle. "I know how much you loved him."

"Love," she said, pulling back. "Love. Present tense. Just because he's dead doesn't mean I stop loving him. I don't think I'll ever stop loving him."

And again she swiped at her cheeks, both of them this time, at those damned tears. If she let them fall, then nothing would stop them from drowning her.

"I'm sorry you never got to hear him say it to you, but he did love you, you know. Very much."

Thea's breathing hitched involuntarily. She pressed a hand to her chest, right over her heart, where pain as fierce as a heart attack raged.

"Not like I loved him," she finally managed. "I've always been his 'little sister.'"

Cole raised a thick, black eyebrow. "You're wearing his dad's old bomber jacket. Don't you remember when he got old enough to wear it he swore he'd give it to the girl he intended to marry?"

"Cole, don't. He gave me the jacket when he went to prison. He said he wanted someone he knew well to have it. He never said he was in love with me. Ever." Thea swiped hard at her eyes. Damned leaking eyes. Despite how she downplayed Gerard's gift, she tugged the jacket tighter around her, the only piece of him she had left.

"And you've been wearing that thing like a uniform ever since." While they'd been talking, Cole'd been mixing up a drink for her, something with cucumber and muddled mint and no alcohol. He poured it into a tall glass, garnished it with an umbrella and a cucumber wedge, then slid it across the counter to her.

"Cole," she said, unable to hold back the whine. "Please don't make me sober up tonight. Please. I need to forget for just a little while. I need to feel numb. I can't stand this...this God- awful hole in my heart."

Someone nearby heard her swear and turned. The large, well-endowed empress of the local eatery, Lulu Carmichael, sidled over and slung her arm around Thea's shoulder. She squeezed her hard while precious vodka and cranberry sloshed out of her cocktail glass. Cole shook his head and moved on to serve other thirsty customers.

"Sweetheart! This is a shit day. I'm so very sorry you have to go through this. He was a good boy, deep down. And everyone here in this bar knows it or we wouldn't be here. The rest of town can go to Hell for all I care. You poor thing. What you've been through all these years, and for it to come to this. Darling, if there's anything I can do for you, you just let me know."

"I could really use a sip of your drink." Thea reached up, snagged the glass out of Lulu's hand and took a giant gulp of the cosmopolitan. Please, please, let it numb this ache and the noise in her head and all those vicious, creeping, crawling doubts. She hadn't worked hard enough, diligently enough, relentlessly enough to solve Katerina Rutherford's murder. Gerard's death really was all Thea's fault. She should have pushed harder. She should have...but what stone hadn't she unturned in every single corner of Radley's Hollow?

There had been one. A stone so large she'd need an act of God to move it. And it sat at the very end of Main Street like a palace at the end of a long road, a là Versailles. The Radley Mansion and the untouchables who lived within.

"Thanks, I needed that." Thea handed Lulu her drink. "I'd bet my life Irene Radley had something to do with what happened to Gerard."

Lulu took a sip of the drink and then returned it to Thea. "The woman is known to dabble in black magic. Here, you need this more than me, girlfriend."

Lulu grabbed onto the counter for support as she wobbled. "I don't go in for that hocus-pocus stuff, but in her case, I'd bet a whole month's take at the cafe that she's a witch. An evil, nasty witch."

Thea had lived in Radley's Hollow all her life and knew that the ghost stories folks told kids to get them to eat their vegetables had more than a little truth to them. And there was definitely something strange about the matriarch of Radley's Hollow. Irene Radley had ruled the town and the Radley family for over sixty years and yet didn't look a day over forty.

"You do know everyone here loves you, right, Thea?" Lulu asked, patting her comfortingly on the shoulder.

Great. Another big lump formed in her throat. She nodded, wordless. Nothing was enough to silence the deafening scream in her head, the sound she'd wanted to make when they'd released the gas. Scream and bash the guard away from the button that killed her best friend in the entire world. She'd wanted to scream like a banshee to high heaven, wreaking vengeance for Gerard's wrongful death. Scream so loud God would finally hear her.

But she'd been mute. Not a peep left her lips from the moment she'd filed into the viewing stands. Viewing stands! Because a state execution required witnesses. And because the family of the victim wanted to see justice done. It had been all she could do to keep from leaping over the chairs and throttling Peter Rutherford's arrogant, sly neck. Thea had gone to school with both Katerina and her brother Peter. She knew Peter well enough to hate every inch of him. He hadn't stopped looking at her during the entire, horrific process of putting a man to death in a "humane" fashion, that snide smirk on his handsome face.

"I know, Lulu. Thank you for saying it." Thea drank down the rest of Lulu's drink, despite Cole's hearty frown from across the bar.

"You know I loved that boy like a son," Lulu said over the thrum of the crowd and the blasting blues. "Lots of us here did."

Thea nodded as she stared into the empty glass. She couldn't speak over the boulder in her throat.

"Tragically, no amount of our love was ever enough. Poor boy. Poor, dear boy." Lulu took a hanky from the pocket of her blue apron. No matter she was at a memorial on her day off, Lulu always wore that apron, little brass first place winner pins glinting like badges of honor across the top, reminding everyone in town exactly who she was—the best damn cook in the whole county. Gerard had practically lived at her cafe come mealtimes, if he wasn't at Thea's mom's table. Lulu dabbed at her eyes.

Thea shuddered, a prickle running down her spine. She sat up straighter and turned to the saloon doors. The two old-fashioned shutters flapped with a familiar slap whenever someone came in from outside. They clacked now as a group of hulking men, once the town's revered high school football players, now large, no-neck bullies, filed into the bar. Thea's jaw dropped.

The whole room went dead quiet. Even the musicians stopped playing as everyone in the entire bar turned to stare at the newcomers.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" asked the leader of the pack, blond, handsome, arrogant, son of a bitch Peter Rutherford. "A memorial for a murderer."

"You shut the hell up and get the hell out of this bar now!" Thea leaped from her stool.

"Or you'll do what?" Peter smirked.

Thea lunged and swung her fist into his face.

Peter ducked at the last second and laughed. "Loyal to that killer to the end, eh, Thea?"

"Hey, asshole, we're all loyal to Gerard," someone shouted from the crowd. Others joined in the grumblings and a number of the bar's regulars got to their feet and moved toward the unwelcome newcomers.

"Westies don't belong here," Thea growled, itching to plow her fist into the face of the pretty boy from the west end of town, the _rich_ end of town. "Not tonight."

"My sister has finally been vindicated." Peter poked his finger in Thea's face. "And there's no way on God's green earth my family will allow any kind of celebration of that bastard who murdered her."

She stepped right up to him. "Try that again and I'll break your finger. Get out now while you can still walk."

"Is that a threat, little Miss Thea?" Peter asked with that goddamned snide smile.

"No, gentlemen, I'm the threat," Cole said, his voice ringing through the room, silencing everyone. "Your great-aunt doesn't own a speck of dirt or a single nail of my bar. If you'd bothered to read the sign outside, you'd have noticed this is a private party for the friends and family of Gerard Wyatt. You are not welcome."

"And none of us are going to stand for you muscling your way in here after your family just railroaded Gerard into the gas chamber!" Thea shouted into Peter's face, so loud he flinched.

"That's right!" More men stepped forward from the tables and dance floor. On stage, Ted, the bassist, and the drummer, Big Al, put down their instruments and hustled down the stage steps.

"Last chance." Thea tasted the tension in the air and it lit her up like a match to kerosene.

"Screw. You." Peter snarled.

Fury consumed her. Thea smashed Peter's face with a surprise left hook and followed it with a powerful undercut to his jaw with her right. Peter staggered backwards, blood pouring from his nose.

The bar exploded in violence.

Thea threw herself into the melee of flying fists, crashing furniture, and blood splatter. She didn't care who she punched or kicked, so long as it was a Westie. It was the only way to truly dull the pain. Pain that radiated from her heart, along every nerve, through every cell, haunting every breath. Pain that never went away. It hadn't been Peter's fault Gerard was executed. It had been hers. She'd failed to prove him innocent. No matter that she played God in the historical mystery novels she wrote, all her years of relentless investigation into Katerina's murder hadn't yielded enough evidence to save Gerard. She should have worked harder, done more, dug deeper... Now all she could do was make sure she honored Gerard's memory with every punch she threw. The battle became a blur of adrenaline and action and blessedly nothing else, not even physical pain. She was lost to the violent storm, no past, no future, only the now.

A pair of arms swept around Thea's midsection from behind and hauled her kicking and screaming from the fight.

"You. Need. To. Calm. Down." Milton Coleridge's voice, as deep and dark as any nightmare, sliced through sound and time.

Thea landed with a thud on a bar stool, a cup of coffee shoved into her hand.

"Drink this," Cole said. "And take a couple of deep breaths."

Thea did as instructed, gulping coffee and breathing in between the gulps. Slowly the rush of the fight faded and she could think again. She took several more deep breaths and registered Cole on the other side of the bar glaring at her, his normally gray eyes an eerie pitch black. And then, as her heartbeat stopped thundering in her ears, she noticed the complete lack of sound. Chills trickled down her spine like sweat. She gulped more coffee and looked around.

_Everything_ was frozen.

Peter and his asshole friends were in the middle of getting the shit kicked out of them by Cole's regulars, only they all stood poised like Greek statues, fists frozen in the middle of a strike, legs extended mid-kick. Droplets of blood hung suspended in the air like gory rain.

The rest of the bar was as creepy and quiet as a wax museum after hours, everyone in a frozen state of fixation, stares glued to the brawl. Even Lulu stood gape-jawed and motionless, fists raised in the air in silent solidarity with her fellow bar mates.

The only two people apparently still capable of movement were Thea and Cole.

Thea was out cold. She had to be. That was the only explanation for this. Knocked out by one of Peter's obnoxious friends, no doubt. This was a dream.

"It's not a dream," Cole said, though his unnatural black eyes begged to differ.

"Then what's wrong with your eyes and why can you hear what I'm thinking?" Thea kept looking around at the impossible scene. So eerie. So quiet. So wrong. "This is clearly a dream."

"No, Thea. Deep down, I think you've always known there is something different about me." Cole planted both hands on the bar's countertop, the off-white sleeves of his button-down shirt bunched up at his elbows. He leveled her a serious stare.

Thea returned his stare. She and Gerard had practically grown up in this bar. Not that Cole would ever serve them. They'd sat at the end of the bar drinking soda pop and listened for hours to Cole's tall tales about a mad witch from the hollow and her army of ghosts that threatened to wipe out humanity. Had all of Cole's crazy stories been something more? Thea had no doubt Irene Radley possessed some sort of dark power that defied everything Thea had grown up believing about the natural world. This frozen time thing, this was something on a whole new level of unbelievable and the only possible explanation was that someone had knocked her out. It was the only thing that still made sense.

"I am a time mage," Cole said, as casually as if he'd said he was a bartender. "I control time. And I've paused it for everyone here except you and me."

Thea shook her head. The room spun around her. She had to be passed out drunk on the barroom floor. She only hoped her body wasn't being trampled on in the fight. What she needed to do was wake up. She pinched herself and squeaked at the pain. Nothing around her changed.

"I am sorry, my dear, that I've had to reveal this to you so suddenly. You gave me no choice. This drunken brawl? This isn't you. What are you trying to do? Do you think it will bring you any closer to him?"

Pain shot through her chest like a bullet. She clutched it and fought the urge to burst out bawling. Yes! Yes, she wanted more than anything to be closer to Gerard, to see him again, to hear his big laugh and stay up late at night talking about anything and everything under the sun...but he'd shut her out of his life by the time they put him to death, telling her she needed to get on with hers. How was she supposed to do that without him?

"Ironically," Cole said when she didn't respond verbally, "I'm out of time. I need your help, Thea. The future needs your help. And you very much need mine."

His tense eyebrows softened, lessening the severity of his sharp, dark looks. He had thick black hair, a compact, muscular build, and was always dressed in a gentleman's clothing, tailored suits, fine shirts, bowler or top hat to complete his look, depending on his mood. He usually wore the bowler to the bar, but for tonight, he had on his fine wool top hat. It made him seem even taller than normal, more commanding, like the de facto leader of the East Enders that he was.

Katerina's murder and the subsequent witch hunt for Gerard had divided the town into two camps, the line drawn strictly down the railroad tracks that bisected town, Westies and their big, fancy houses on one side, the East Enders in their modest homes, farmhouses and shacks on the other. This fight tonight wasn't the first to break out over the issue and it sure wouldn't be the last. This battle just might tear the whole town apart. If Cole was imparting wisdom to her via some sort of outrageous scenario only a dreaming mind could come up with, she'd better listen.

"I'm still not convinced this is anything more than a dream and you're about to tell me one of your tall tales, but I'll bite. Start by telling me how you _froze_ _time_." Thea folded her arms across her chest.

"I didn't freeze time, not like you think. We're in a temporal bubble within the space of a millisecond. For a short time, I can hold us here while nothing more than a fraction of a blink of an eye goes by to everyone else. I should be able to hold a temporal bubble indefinitely, but something happened last night when Gerard was executed. Time...broke. And so did my connection to it. It's why I need your help."

"How on Earth do you break time? I don't get it. You mean the past got changed somehow?"

"Far worse, I'm afraid," he said. "Time was shattered, like a mirror shatters into a thousand splinters, every shard containing different possibilities, different timelines, different outcomes. And I have shattered with it, in a sense. I've lost all connection to my other selves in the space/time continuum."

"Excuse me?" Thea scratched her head.

"My race's _raison d'être_ since time began has been to protect the integrity of time, in part because we have the ability to see all of time all at once. But now it's as if I have temporal amnesia. The past, present and future have been jumbled up, splinters have formed, dark spots blot out my memory. My power over time is being leeched away."

"And this all happened last night when they executed Gerard?"

Cole nodded. "At the very moment he died."

"You did look pretty upset last night after we left the prison, but I guess we all were. I didn't think it was anything more than that."

"Last night I had no way to articulate what was happening to me. I was in too much shock and pain to understand it myself. It wasn't until I got back here to my rooms upstairs that things became clear. I had a visitor. A very peculiar visitor who knew all about the broken timelines. This person told me about the rise of a mad witch named Scheherazade, who lives in the heart of the hollow, spewing evil into all the broken timelines, leading the whole planet to a fate not even I can prevent. My visitor told of a safe haven almost one hundred and eighty years in the future, a place outside of time, in a bubble much like this one, only it holds an entire community. They are called the League of the Helping Hand and they're the last bastion of humanity fighting against Scheherazade and her nightmare army of ghosts and demons—"

"Wait." Thea held up her hand. "Wait. I know this story. It's the one you've been telling for years."

"No, Thea, I haven't. I've never told that story before." Cole's dark gaze didn't shift or waver.

"But I remember..." The image of Cole in his top hat and tails at the Halloween festival every year flickered like an old movie film, grainy and dim. He gestured as his voice boomed over the crowd of children gathered close. A delicious chill of fear skated down her spine as much as any child's... Only Cole's image began to fade. The children disappeared one by one and Cole's words slowed down like a 45 rpm record played at 33, distorted, unintelligible...then gone.

"Okay, this is really starting to freak me out." Thea gulped down more coffee. "This had better be a damned hallucination, because if you've had power over time, then why the hell didn't you use it to save Gerard?"

"Oh my dear, do you not see the very moral quandary of your request? If I were to change the past in Gerard's favor, why shouldn't I change others?"

"I don't know, why not?" she challenged, chin raised, foolish, childish hope blossoming in her heart.

Cole shook his head. "What you are asking is to fold time. All time. And that, I believe, may be what got us into this predicament in the first place. Someone found a way to twist time to their own whim. I only wonder if the culprit knew the damage they would unleash."

"Right, this giant ghost war you mentioned." Thea rubbed her temples vigorously, vodka, coffee, and the aftereffects of the fist fight doing battle in her head. That and Cole's monumental confession.

"Not just that, Thea. When time is folded, the entire Universe can be drawn backwards, depending on how significant the fold. This bubble I've created has a limited range of effectiveness that doesn't go beyond this saloon. The bigger the fold, the more of space and time are drawn into it. And that means nothing's guaranteed to go the same way again. This planet already owes its existence to a miraculous string of events on the universal scale. Turn back time and you could change the location of a star or the path of a comet or send our planet on a collision course with a black hole."

"I...see... So are you saying one or more of the above is happening?"

"I believe so, yes. You see, I am the only time mage currently in existence. There were others...but they've long since passed." Cole's face clouded over for a moment. Then it cleared and he looked at her. "This visitor yesterday told me someone is trying to kill me in order to take control of time, perhaps even to deliberately destroy it."

"Cole, I write mysteries for a living, but I'm no detective. Look how miserably I failed..." Goddamn that lump in her throat. "I don't know why you'd want my help. I don't even know how I could possibly help you, assuming this is all real."

"That's just it, my dear. _You_ were my visitor last night. That is, a version of you from the future."

"Me? Time traveling from the future? How in the world would I even be able to do that when I'm sitting right here?"

"She, the you of the future, that is, had only enough energy to remain in this timeline long enough to warn me someone is trying to kill me throughout time and to tell me I need to send you to 2147 to this league I mentioned to solve the mystery. She gave me very specific temporal coordinates."

"Wait just a second. _What_ did you say? You want me to go to the twenty-second century and solve your attempted murder? Are you out of your mind?" Thea smacked her forehead. "No, clearly, I'm out of mine. I've gone over the edge. It's all been too much. The not sleeping, the constant work, losing him... It's finally gone and pushed me over the edge."

"Regrettably, I fear we also have little time, Thea. If I fall in this future she told me about, the safe haven will be destroyed and the witch Scheherazade will bring her nightmares to this reality. Your family, your friends, everything you still do love about Radley's Hollow will be brought to ruin."

"Did you not hear me? I'm a failure when it comes to saving anybody! I shouldn't be doing anything other than crawling under a rock and never coming out again."

Cole softened. "She said you'd doubt your abilities. But I don't and neither did she. She said you need this mission."

"The _she_ in question being me. From the future. This is completely insane."

"Or it's exactly what you need."

"Still not convinced," Thea said.

"There is one other piece of information your future self imparted to me. There is a leader of this league I mentioned. They call him the General. He and his ghost hunters have conducted the only successful guerrilla resistance against the witch and her undead army. It's thanks to him there are any humans alive in the future."

"He sounds like a hero. What's it got to do with me?"

"He is another version of Gerard from a different timeline."

Noise rushed through her ears. Her heart kicked in her chest. "He's another version...?"

She couldn't even finish the sentence. Hope blossomed like a flower unfurling in the sun. She stamped it down. This was a dream! And it had just turned into a nightmare. Hope had kept her putting one foot in front of the other these past eight years. Hope that she'd crack Gerard's case. Hope that she'd save him. Hope that he'd finally look at her like she'd seen him look at so many other girls, that he'd finally see her as more than just his best friend. Hope needed to die and stay dead. As dead as Gerard was. This was a cruel trick of her subconscious to play, dangling this dangerous possibility in front of her. How in the hell was she supposed to say no to the chance to see Gerard alive again?

"The General is not the boy you knew," Cole added. "He's only known the violence and deprivation of the ghost war his entire life. He's a fighter to the core. Your future self warned me he may well be the one who finally tips the scales in the wrong direction. She said only you can stop him."

"Did my future self happen to mention exactly how I'm supposed to stop a career guerrilla soldier I've never met and who doesn't know me from a lamppost?"

"Yes," Cole said. "She said you must teach him how to love."

"What? I know nothing about time travel and even less about love. I can't believe future me ever thought I was the right candidate for this insane mission."

"Perhaps future you has learned a thing or two and knows you need to go on this journey."

"Perhaps..." The allure of seeing Gerard again, no matter what new name he went by, tingled through her body. The rightness of it contrasted with the madness of the entire proposal. So she was in some kind of coma from a brutal knockout in the fight or Cole's powers and stories were true. She had to make a choice. In the end, it was an easy one.

You can buy this book or find out more information here.

The universe in which my novel, _Bring Me to Ruin_ , is set first came to me as a dream about a haunted town. The Haunted Hollow has been quietly building itself in the back of my mind ever since. Long fascinated by the eerie atmosphere of ghost towns and the timelessness of dreams, I wanted the series to be set in small town California, bucolic on the surface but haunted by ghosts in the shadows. In addition, I wanted to follow not just certain characters, but also the history of the town, past, present and future. Eventually, the storyline evolved to incorporate a hidden world underneath the town, a world where time is broken and an evil sorceress threatens to decimate the human race with a deadly necro-virus and a highly contagious ghost army.

Into this alternate reality, I dropped two characters developed from my original dream. Raised in the trenches of the Great Ghost War, the General is a heroic figure, but also a solitary, lonely man. Because of his role as leader, he has to keep everyone at a distance. He believes it's necessary to get the job done. Then Thea Maloney steps through time and shatters everything he thought he knew about himself. These two have been circling each other in my head for years, so it was a lot of fun finally writing the combustible scenes between them as they danced around their attraction on both the physical and soul levels. Both of them are fish out of water. She's been thrust into a post-apocalyptic future full of dangerous new technologies and violent, dark magic and he's never been in love before. Of the two, he has the hardest time adapting. Exploring their fears and desires and growing their characters has been a dream come true.

**T ess Rider** lives with her wonderfully eccentric husband in an equally eccentric Victorian in the San Francisco Bay Area. An avid cat lover in search of her next cat(s), Tess is a huge fan of anything by Joss Whedon and gets inspiration for book titles from song lyrics. She's an accountant by day, a novelist by night and an artist at heart 24/7. Her debut paranormal time travel romance, _Bring Me to Ruin_ , released April 2016. Find her on the web at www.tessrider.com and contact her at tess@tessrider.com. You can also find her:

Facebook Twitter Instagram Pinterest Goodreads

# Star Cruise: Marooned by Veronica Scott

# About Star Cruise: Marooned

Meg Antille works long hours on the charter cruise ship Far Horizon so she can send credits home to her family. Working hard to earn a promotion to a better post (and better pay), Meg has no time for romance.

Former Special Forces soldier Red Thomsill only took the berth on the Far Horizon in hopes of getting to know Meg better, but so far she's kept him at a polite distance. A scheduled stopover on the idyllic beach of a nature preserve planet may be his last chance to impress the girl.

But when one of the passengers is attacked by a wild animal it becomes clear that conditions on the lushly forested Dantaralon aren't as advertised – the ranger station is deserted, the defensive perimeter is down...and then the Far Horizon's shuttle abruptly leaves without any of them.

Marooned on the dangerous outback world, romance is the least of their concerns, and yet Meg and Red cannot help being drawn to each other once they see how well they work together. But can they survive long enough to see their romance through? Or will the wild alien planet defeat them, ending their romance and their lives before anything can really begin?

# Excerpt of Star Cruise: Marooned

CHAPTER ONE

The shuttle broke out of the cloud layer and swooped over a breathtaking vista of pink and green foliage, practically glowing in the vid screens. The rainforest spread across the planet as far as the scanners could detect. Clouds of multicolored birds flew above the treetops, drawing the eye to their wheeling movement across the turquoise sky. Here and there, rainbows curved from puffy clouds, where seasonal showers had added moisture to the air. As Meg walked through the cabin, offering refreshments to their guests, she attempted to direct their attention to the view of the planet. Anchored by trees soaring hundreds of feet from the surface, the foliage and avian wildlife were something never seen on the highly civilized worlds where these people lived and worked. Although they'd paid a staggering amount of credits to be taken to this site, neither the primary guest, nor the people he'd brought, seemed to care. Drinking, playing cards, and indulging in sexual innuendo took all their attention.

Not much changed from cruise to cruise with the rich and powerful, despite Meg's best efforts to share the simple pleasure she found in the surroundings at each port of call.

At the rear of the main cabin, she found at least one passenger watching the screen above her seat. "How are you doing?"

Callina Finchon Bettis took her attention from the view for a moment, giving Meg a little wave. "Fine, smooth ride so far. When can we see the Falls?"

"Soon. The pilot likes to swoop in from the front, as if we're going to splash right through the water." Meg leaned closer. "But don't worry, he veers to the side at the last moment." She placed an iced fruit drink at the woman's elbow. "Maybe five more minutes."

As Callina murmured thanks, Meg retreated to the galley, where she found the only other crew member besides the pilot.

"Passengers all happy now?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

"I don't think this bunch is ever happy," she said. "You'll find generational billionaires rarely are, when you've done more of these private charters. But at least I've supplied them with feelgoods." She slid the drink tray into the chiller. "Did you need something?"

Simon 'Red' Thomsill held up his hands in mock surrender. "I know, this is your territory and I shouldn't be here, Guild rules. But the pilot wanted coffee."

Hands on her hips, Meg smothered an impatient sigh. "First of all, he should have buzzed me for it, and secondly, he knows perfectly well only guests are entitled to genuine Terran coffee."

"Wow, are you this dedicated to rules all the time?" He leaned against the emergency portal and studied her, one eyebrow raised as if he might be trying to tease her.

Two internal call signals pinged, one right after the other. From the cabin, she heard female passengers swearing at each other. She straightened her tunic as if gathering determination, and headed out to mediate whatever the problem was now. "No tip is going to be big enough," she said under her breath. Pausing on the threshold, she glanced at Red. "I'm responsible for the coffee inventory on this shuttle, and it comes out of my pay if the weight is short."

"I didn't know."

"Yeah, there's a lot you don't know, rookie. But Drewson does. The synth stuff crew members drink is over there." Pointing at the proper carafe, she left the galley as more voices joined the clamor in the passenger section.

One of the scantily clad women had spilled her beverage all over another's ample cleavage, staining both the woman's skin and skimpy bikini top. The agressor was pulling the other's hair and screaming insults, while her victim tried to land some blows anywhere she could reach. The primary guest laughed and made bets with the two men seated next to him, wagering on which woman would prevail.

Meg waded into the fray. "Ladies, please, we're about to land. You're required to be in your seats before we can make our final approach." She caught the second woman's elbow. Modulating her voice to a soothing tone, Meg said, "I can remove the stain, Ma'am, no problem."

The women paused in their altercation, gazing beyond her with wide eyes. A moment later, both fluffed their hair.

Without turning, Meg knew Red had followed her. She'd observed his effect on females more than once already on this cruise. Something about his 6'4" height, the heavily muscled biceps, the chiseled features, the sparkling green eyes...Well, okay, to be honest, he had the same effect on her, but she wasn't about to let him know. Been there, done that with a tempting crewman or two on her early tours. Crew romances were nothing but trouble when the first attraction inevitably flamed out.

Although Red was more tempting than anyone she'd met in a long time.

"Second Officer Drewson asked me to come and make sure the accommodations and the service are satisfactory," he said, his voice deep and slow.

"Oh, yes, we're fine." The girl with the stained top brushed at her skin, accentuating her ample chest with the gesture, and smiled as if she hadn't been screeching obscenities a moment prior.

"So nice of you." The other batted her three eyes at Red, green lashes sweeping her cheeks. She held out her arm. "I think I might have a scratch."

"I'll get the medkit while Miss Antille helps Sharmali," he said, leaning close to inspect the tiny red mark on the passenger's creamy skin.

"Fine." Meg was pissed and she planned to let him know it. What the seven hells did he think he was doing, interfering with her care for her passengers? He was crew, not service. She wasn't the rookie here. Following Sharmali to her seat, Meg drew the cleaning pod from her belt and passed it a few inches above the woman's skin and the orange and purple fabric of the bikini top. The pod hummed and the stains lifted in a rain of reverse droplets, absorbed into the cleaner, leaving no trace.

Not bothering with thanks, Sharmali practically shoved Meg out of the way to return to where Red was patting soothing ointment on the second passenger's face, having already bandaged the red mark on her arm. Moving past the seat where the first aid was occurring, Meg rolled her eyes. The mark was so tiny, it didn't merit discussing, much less treatment. Or his holding the woman's hand as she hyperventilated.

Irritation at the cozy scene flooded Meg's nerves, making her voice a bit on the shrill side. "Don't you have to return to the flight deck, Officer Thomsill?" Technically, she outranked him when it came to passenger care.

He gave her an enigmatic look, gathered the medical supplies, and headed for the galley behind her. "You're welcome," he said as she keyed the privacy screen between them and the passenger seats.

"Listen, I didn't ask for your help and I don't need it. You made me appear incompetent just now." Grabbing the medkit from him, she stuffed it into the proper niche, slamming the compartment door.

Eyebrows raised, he rocked back on his heels. "That wasn't my intention."

"We'll be landing in three minutes, folks." Drewson's voice on the com was authoritative. "The Falls is coming into range on your vidscreens. Officer Thomsill, you're needed on the flight deck."

"Saved by the pilot, or I'd be giving you a piece of my mind," Meg said, shaking her finger at Red. "Don't forget his synth coffee."

Red reached past her to grab the carafe. Leaning close, invading her personal space, he said, "We'll continue this conversation later."

As he ascended in the one level gravlift to rejoin the pilot, she took a deep breath, pasted on her professional expression, and returned to the cabin to ensure the passengers were seated for landing and could perhaps be cajoled to spare a moment to glimpse the extremely expensive view.

"Took you long enough," Drewson said as Red reached the cockpit.

"Here's your synth," he answered, more than a little annoyed. He suspected Drewson had set him up.

The pilot guffawed as he accepted the steaming drink. "Miss By-The-Book wouldn't give you the real stuff, would she? Didn't think she would."

Red sank into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. Yeah, his trip to the cabin had sure gone well. He'd managed to annoy Meg twice in ten minutes. Third time and he'd be a total write-off as far as she was concerned. Good intentions didn't get him too far. _Need to up your game, Thomsill._ Meg was the only reason he'd signed on to this outfit. One glance at her, sitting at the next table in the Guild canteen on Sector Hub and he'd been a goner. Something about her sweet face and sparkling hazel eyes stuck in a man's memory.

When he heard there was an opening on this ship for a Third Officer, he'd put his other opportunity on hold, entered his bid, and apparently the captain liked his experience. But this was next to the last stop on the charter and so far Meg barely gave him the time of day. If she spoke to him at all. The other officers and crew members said she kept to herself and never dated co-workers. Which was smart of her, but didn't help him much. The Sectors was a galaxy-wide civilization, the cushy job on hold for him with the CLC Line wouldn't wait forever, and he might never see her again if he let this opportunity fall through.

He'd never had much of a problem getting to know a woman before. Of course, none of them had mattered to him as much as Meg did. Desire to impress her made him self-conscious and fall over his own big feet.

Every time.

"Told you she's impossible," Drewson said. "I tried on our first cruise together, but she shut me down hard."

"Well quit 'helping' me, okay? I can screw this up enough on my own." Red hid his frustration under a light tone.

"Gonna miss you, rookie, if you don't sign on with us again. It's been a treat watching you try to make an impression on Meg. You should have gone after the Chief Stewardess. She's been eyeing you, in case you haven't gotten the message."

Except he wasn't the least bit interested in anyone but Meg. Red gave himself a mental shake. He could plan complex operations in the field, improvise on the fly under the worst conditions, and had the medals to prove it—why couldn't he manage to establish some kind of less than antagonistic relationship with Meg Antille? See if there was any potential for something between them? Not for the first time, he berated himself for being an idiot, following a woman he'd only barely met across the Sector...but somehow a chance with Meg seemed worth it.

Drewson fiddled with the controls. "Check the atmospherics, would you? Make sure those storms are tracking out to sea."

"Yes, sir." Glad to be distracted, even for a moment, Red gave his attention to the instruments.

True to Meg's prediction, Drewson took the shuttle in through the iridescent spray thrown off by the Rainbow Falls, and executed a smooth landing on the small landing pad next to the beach. As she triggered the door to allow the passengers to exit for their excursion today, Meg said, "We'll be here for four hours, so you have plenty of time to stroll along the beach, enjoy the view, and relax. It's safe to swim in the lake, but please, no further out than the marker buoys where the sonic barrier begins. The crew and I'll be setting up your pavilion and amenities, and serving the requested lunch in about an hour."

The music the Falls was famed for thundered outside. The water was effervescent, filled with bubbles of all the colors of the rainbow, having leached minerals from the planet's surface as the river flowed toward the solitary ocean. The way the liquid poured through the cliff's rocky channels and crevices produced constantly changing crystalline "music." Meg loved it here. Dantaralon was one of her favorite spots. She stepped outside for a moment herself, before the work had to begin again. The air was warm, redolent with scent from the many flowering plants.

"Wow." Red descended the short ramp to stand beside her, staring at the waterfall in the distance. "Impressive, like the brochures promised."

"We specialize in conveying our passengers on a tour of exotic natural wonders," Meg said. "This part of Sector Thirty is full of amazing sights on so many planets."

"Seen one waterfall, seen them all. Come on, let's get this done before the Primary starts complaining." Drewson left the shuttle, jumped off the ramp, and went to open the cargo hold.

"Mr. Finchon and his guests have the place pretty much to themselves," Red said, eyeing the empty landing pad, which held only one other shuttle, parked at the other end of the grid. "He should appreciate the exclusivity of the situation. Is this place usually so deserted?"

Meg paused to take a second look. Red was right, there was only one set of charter cruise passengers already on the beach. She recognized the TDJ Lines banner flying from their gaudy turquoise pavilion. "Odd, while this isn't peak season, we usually have to share with more neighbors than this."

"Can we cut the chitchat?" Drewson activated the three stubby robos inside the now-open hold. One after the other they trundled down their ramp, moving smoothly onto the terrain on their antigrav. The pilot tossed the control to Meg. "All yours."

She'd done this routine many a time. Directing the robos to the beach was simple. Once there, the biggest unfolded itself into a pavilion similar to TDJ's, if less colorful, and the other two disgorged lounge chairs, her cooking apparatus, and more necessary equipment.

Red brought the food and drink module, parking it next to Meg. "Are you sure you don't need help? Shouldn't the Chief Stew have come along today?"

"Yes, ideally, but she said she had a headache." Meg was busy unwrapping the precooked hors d'oeuvres. "It's only a beach picnic, half the passengers didn't come. I can deal. And she's going to work ahead on décor for dinner, consult with the chef, all the arrangements the guests will never even notice. Will you go set up the flotation devices and the net for games, in case anyone actually wants to play?"

"Aye aye." He gave her a mock salute and trotted closer to the lakeshore, where the guests were settling into their comfortable chairs.

Meg followed to take drinks orders. The next hour or so was busy, but she enjoyed the pace. Made the time pass.

Moments before she was ready to serve lunch, Red checked in with her again.

"Anything else you need?"

She realized her party hadn't cleared their presence yet with the park rangers. Pushing her bangs off her forehead, she said, "Yes, can you do me a favor and run to the ranger station on the far side of the landing field? Usually, someone would have come by to check our permit, but maybe there's a staff meeting running long or something. Tell the person at the desk our permits are in order, and I can show them after I've served lunch. Our line has a good reputation, so the ranger should be okay about it."

"No problem." Despite his cheerful answer, he hesitated. "What does Drewson do on these trips ashore?"

"As little as possible, believe me. Privilege of rank, or so he says. Actually, he's not too good with the guests, so his absence is probably better for all of us, as far as the size of the tip at the end of the voyage." Meg hoped she hadn't said too much to the rookie, but her frustrations with Drewson grew every time he was assigned as the pilot bringing her ashore with passengers.

As Red walked away, she served the buffet luncheon, which met with approval from their guests. The _Far Horizon_ featured one of the Virochol Lines' most experienced gourmet chefs—he shipped out as a package deal with their Captain, so her ship was much sought after for charters.

Red came to report in the middle of lunch service, a puzzled frown on his face.

"What did the ranger say?" Meg asked, plating more mini sandwiches.

Shaking his head, Red said, "No one there."

"What?" She paused in the middle of drizzling artful condiments on the individual Azrigone beef patties. Laughing, thinking perhaps he was kidding, she said, "Are they out to lunch or something?"

"Place is all closed up. I knocked, on the off chance someone was left as a caretaker, but the station shows all the signs of being abandoned." He ran one hand through the dark maroon hair that gave him his nickname.

"Impossible. The rangers and their families live here year round. I'll go check for myself later." Annoyed at his failure to complete the simple task, she said, "Mr. Trever asked to go fishing, and that's your job."

"Any hints on the best spot?" Red surveyed the lake.

"I never paid much attention. I think there's a sand bar off to the left. Try there." She gestured vaguely. "The fishing gear is in the boat module, which you'll have to bring from the shuttle."

Red departed to handle the task and she kept serving lunch and drinks. A few minutes later, she heard the purr of the small boat's motor and raised her head long enough to watch Red skippering three guests onto the beautifully colored lake.

Finishing the lunch service, she had a bit of free time before the mid afternoon snack. Mingling with the passengers held no appeal for her. She wasn't working charters to try and snag a generational billionaire or intergalactic businessman. Meg sent as many of her credits as she could to her family, on their home world, to buy more land for the Antille spice farms. Scanning the beach for a moment, she considered the primary guest and the men he'd brought along on this cruise. A mix of businessmen like himself and faded celebrities to fawn over him and impress the men he wanted to do deals with. Shaking her head, she couldn't wait to see the last of this bunch.

Taking a glass of the refreshing faquilada fruit drink, she wandered toward the TDJ pavilion, hoping she knew a few of the cruise staff or crew. A woman in the other line's uniform came to meet her, waving cordially. Delighted, Meg recognized Sallira, a casual acquaintance in the Guild. Their circle of mutual friends was wide, so catching up on gossip took a few minutes. Then Meg said, "Hey, what's the deal with the ranger station? My guy said it was closed. Did you see anyone official when you landed?"

Sallira shook her head. "No, he's right, the staff is all gone." Making a funny face of regret, lips scrunched, she sighed. "Too bad, I had a flirtation going with the senior ranger last time I was here." One eyebrow raised suggestively, she sipped her drink. "I was anticipating more fun and games this trip, if you know what I mean." She nudged Meg in the ribs with her elbow. "Harmless fun, but he sure was cute."

Meg stared at the Falls and then the lake. The park gave the appearance of order, serene and beautiful as always. Maybe the Sector Thirty government had decided to cut costs by eliminating the rangers? But then why hadn't she seen a bulletin to that effect? The captain gave her the permit token before the shuttle left the _Far Horizon_ this morning, so he must not have known the permanent staff was gone either.

There was a shout from the TDJ pavilion. One of the crew was hustling their obviously bewildered passengers toward Meg and Sallira, while a second man ran ahead, sprinting for the landing field as if he had a major predator on his heels. The other cruise staff member was matching him stride for stride, but skidded to a stop in the sand next to Sallira, breathing hard. "We gotta go, right now."

Eyes wide, the woman's jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

"Captain called, emergency channel, said get our butts up to the ship immediately."

Sallira twisted her hair into a knot as she prepared to return to work. "I guess gossip time is over, sorry, Meg. I'll go pack the gear—"

But the other TDJ woman was shaking her head, pulling her by the elbow. "No, the captain said leave everything. Run before the pilot leaves _us_."

"Is there something I should know?" Meg asked. No one ever abandoned the expensive robots and gear. Unease stirred in her gut.

"I don't know, captain didn't give any details. We're out of here." The staffer grabbed a dawdling child who was digging a hole in the sand, and hurried to the incline leading to the shuttles.

"Guess I better go," Sallira said. "Maybe you should check with your captain, might be a solar flare or something."

Her crewmates were yelling and gesturing for Sallira to hurry so she didn't linger for any more chitchat, taking off at a fast pace, leaving Meg alone on the beach. Moments later, the TDJ shuttle lifted straight from the pad and shot into the azure sky. Meg rubbed her elbow, suddenly feeling goose bumps. The beach wasn't as welcoming anymore, despite the bright sun and the ethereal music from the Falls. The forlorn pavilion and humming equipment bothered her.

"What's with them?"

She jumped, turning to find Red standing behind her. This time it was a bit comforting to have him by her side. "I don't know."

"Is the other crew coming back later for their stuff?" His face was set in serious lines.

"I-I don't know." Meg walked toward their own set up. "The TDJ staff member in charge said their captain got on the com from orbit about some emergency and recalled them."

"Did we get any bulletins?" Red asked. "Storms? Warn offs?"

She shook her head. "Not that I heard of. You're ship's crew, you're more likely to know than I am. Think I should ask Drewson to check in with the _Far Horizon?_ "

He scanned the beach, eyes hooded. "Yeah, I think you've got a good idea. I'll cover things here."

Meg handed him her empty glass. "Do you mind turning off their power grid?"

Eyebrows raised, he gave her an incredulous stare. "The TDJ staff left the equipment running?"

Not bothering to answer beyond a distracted nod, she made her way to the landing pad. The shuttle portal was locked, which seemed like excessive caution on Drewson's part, but of course she had the override code. The cabin was empty, but she heard sounds from the rear, where there was a luxurious private bedroom. Reluctantly, she walked aft. Drewson and at least one of the passengers were obviously enjoying themselves, from the exclamations and noises she was overhearing. Maybe he wasn't as bad with interpersonal relations as she'd believed.

She knocked on the thick Zulairian mahogany door, another of the many expensive touches on their shuttle. Luxury all the way, was the Virochol Lines' boast.

No answer, but the voices inside the room had gone silent.

She rapped her knuckles on the door again. "Drewson, it's Meg. I need to talk to you—we may have a problem."

The door opened a crack, enough for her to see her fellow crew member's naked body. Averting her eyes, she said, "Have you heard anything from the ship?"

"Of course not. Why would I?" Drewson's smile was more of a leer. "I've been busy."

"There's something weird going on—"

"I'm waiting," said an impatient female voice from further inside the room. "You don't want me to get cold, do you?"

The Second Officer turned his head a fraction. "I'll warm you up again, baby, no problem."

Meg tamped down her irritation. He was risking his job, not to mention the tip the entire crew worked for, if he got caught screwing a guest while on duty, but he was her commanding officer right now. He could make a lot of trouble for her. She wasn't going to yield on her demand, though. "I think we need to check with the ship."

"All _right_ ," he said, a rough edge of anger in his voice. He shut the door in her face and opened it open a moment later, extending his hand, the control panel token dangling on the chain of his suskadi-foot lucky charm. "You know how to open the coms; you call if you're so damn worried. Tell them I'm attending to passenger relations, understand? And barring war breaking out between the rangers and us, do _not_ interrupt me a second time." The threat was clear.

"Yes, sir."

The door slammed in her face. Meg turned and walked slowly to the bow, where the gravlift to the cockpit was located. Doubt assailed her. There were bound to be awkward questions why she was calling the ship. Maybe the TDJ crew had a problem with their vessel, nothing at all to do with anything affecting their own situation. In the galley, she paused, swinging the little good luck charm. "Am I overreacting?" Red didn't think so, but then he was a rookie. Although rumor had it he was retired military, Special Forces or something, a drifter now, bumming his way through the galaxy pleasure spots. Maybe his opinion did count more than most rookie crew members'. Chewing her lip, she sank into her jump seat. But the passengers were her responsibility right now and the TDJ crew had abandoned a lot of pricey hardware in their haste to leave.

"Okay, I'll pretend I need clarification on dinner tonight, something the Primary might have asked." Plan in mind, she left the chair to take the gravlift into the cockpit.

All kinds of lights were flashing and there was a loud klaxon sounding. Hands over her ears, Meg rushed to the com panel, which she'd received cursory cross-training on, early in her stint as a cruise staff member. Hesitating for a moment, she flipped the controls to off. Then she swallowed hard and opened the link to their ship in stationary orbit above.

"Hello, _Far Horizon_ , shuttle calling—"

"Where the seven hells have you been? Where's Drewson?" The voice she heard was so strained she could barely recognize the First Officer.

She drew breath to speak, but was cut off.

"Never mind, tell him everything's—"

There was a funny sort of crackle from the link and then silence. She waited a few moments, then tried closing and reopening the connection. Nothing. Ship to space atmospherics could be a chancy thing. Drewson had made it clear he would _not_ appreciate her interrupting his private party twice, and anyway, right now there was no talking to the ship.

The panel indicated someone else had entered the shuttle. Callina's voice came over the internal com. "Meg? Are you here?"

She flipped the switch. "I'm in the cockpit. What do you need?" The last thing she wanted was the woman going near the private bedroom.

"Mr. Thomsill sent me to get you and the medkit. Sharmali's been bitten by some kind of eel thing and she's bleeding really bad."

"I'll be right down." Meg rose, staring at the now quiet com board. She decided to leave the ship-to-ship and general hailing frequencies open. With mischievous amusement, she piped the links directly to the luxury cabin, set at high volume. If the ship did call again, Drewson was going to know it. He could make his own excuses when he answered. She could always claim she'd forgotten how to adjust the volume.

When the gravlift deposited her in the galley, Callina was waiting, shifting from foot to foot, tears on her cheeks. Rushing to tell her news, the passenger's words tumbled out. "Sharmali was in the water and this thing grabbed her, pulled her under. Mr. Thomsill rescued her. I've never seen anything like it, outside the adventure trideos. He was amazing, the way he fought the beast in the water with his knife. But she's screaming and there's so much blood."

"He didn't get bitten too, did he?"

Callina shook her head. "I don't think so. He was acting normal."

Deciding at most Sharmali had fallen afoul of a non-venomous water snake, because the sonic barrier kept the serious predators at bay, Meg grabbed the medkit and handed it to Callina. More of the female passenger's drama over nothing. "Here, there should be all the equipment and medicines he needs to treat Sharmali's bite. I'm sure the wound can't be too bad. Tell him I'll be right there."

Sniffling, Callina sprinted for the exit. Meg looked around, anxiety making her queasy. Where was she going to leave the precious control panel token? Of course Drewson could operate the shuttle without it—there was a backup hidden where only he knew—but he'd be angry if she kept it. Guild rules and all. Deciding to stash it in his coffee mug, she stepped to the left when something caught her eye—an unmarked, sealed compartment where the officers' weapons were held. Did she dare? Yes, today she did. Things were definitely going awry and getting scarier. Drewson could give her hell later, but if one of the deadly eels had somehow gotten inside the barrier on the beach, other predatory creatures might be in the vicinity as well. Her passengers could be in jeopardy.

You can buy this book or find out more information here.

There was a reality TV show on BRAVO for two seasons, called "Below Deck", which followed the crew of a luxury charter yacht in the Caribbean as they sailed with different guests. You can imagine there were a lot of soap opera-like goings-on since this was reality TV after all. Although I have no idea how true to life the program might have been, I was pretty fascinated by the show – I get hooked occasionally on these things. Not so much the "Real Housewives" type program, but the ones like "Say Yes To The Dress" or "Project Runway."

The concept of the luxury charter cruises stayed with me but of course being a science fiction romance author, I kept thinking "what if" this were set in the far future, in the Sectors, which is the galactic civilization where my SFR novels occur. I've already written about the interstellar liner _Nebula Dream_ , and the sad end to her maiden cruise, and I'm working on a series of novels set on a sister liner that doesn't suffer a wreck. But this TV show made me think about a smaller framework and a different subset of crew and passengers. On the program, the crew often had to take the guests ashore for a beach party or an excursion. I was intrigued by the idea of my luxury space yacht taking parties of rich, bored guests to scenic wonders in their area of the galaxy. As Meg, the cruise staffer says, "We specialize in conveying our passengers on a tour of exotic natural wonders. This part of Sector Thirty is full of amazing sights on so many planets."

But what if the situation wasn't as expected on the planet? What if the ranger station was deserted? What if things slowly start going wrong and the crew and guests _don't_ get picked on time up by their ship? Which of course is what happens at the beginning of _Star Cruise: Marooned._

Another aspect of the "Below Deck" environment I found interesting was how the crew members went from ship to ship, depending on who was hiring, who else was working on what vessel – very few of them seemed to remain on the same boat over time, but they all knew each other. I liked the idea of crew mobility, which allowed me to have my hero Simon 'Red' Thomsill join the crew for this one cruise, while on his way to a much better berth on a bigger ship.

Being a seat of the pants style writer, I started with that concept and let the story unfold for me. The book turned out to be a short novel, about 48K words. A lot of adventure and romance jam-packed into the pages! No spoilers, because I always have a Happily Ever After ending, but I'm pretty sure Meg and Red will be signing on to my new ship, and appearing as secondary characters in the stories I intend to write about her cruises.

Best Selling Science Fiction & Paranormal Romance author and "SciFi Encounters" columnist for the USA Today Happily Ever After blog, Veronica Scott grew up in a house with a library as its heart. Dad loved science fiction, Mom loved ancient history and Veronica thought there needed to be more romance in everything. When she ran out of books to read, she started writing her own stories.

Veronica writes novels set in the far future, often involving a disaster to kick the action off, as well as a fantasy romance series set in ancient Egypt. Her most recent release is _Hostage to the Stars._

Three time winner of the SFR Galaxy Award, as well as a National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award, Veronica is also the proud recipient of a NASA Exceptional Service Medal relating to her former day job, not her romances!

Played Star Trek Enterprise Crew Member in the audiobook of Harlan Ellison's "City On the Edge of Forever" (2016)

You can find out more about Veronica here:

Blog Twitter Facebook

# The Slave Planet by Seven Steps

# About The Slave Planet

On a planet where women are born to rule, Empress Nadira's secret affair with her slave threatens to rip her family apart. When she joins the highest council in the land, her secret is revealed. Will Nadira go against everything she believes in to protect her family, or will she choose her heart and doom everyone she loves to death?

# Excerpt of The Slave Planet

**Chapter 1**

**O uter Ring, Habitat Alpha**

**Planet Venus**

**7009**

On unsteady feet, sixteen-year-old Nadira Marie gripped the side of the iced over, metal vat. She raised a clear bottle to her lips and took a deep drink of blue wine.

Above, the orange and black Venian atmosphere swirled and coiled, clearly visible through the transparent dome. The clear, metal walls of the Habitat were hundreds of feet thick, built to withstand the pressure, heat and general fury of the planet's atmosphere.

Around her was the Reservoir. The vats agitated and churned as they pumped water through underground tunnels and into the homes of the women and men in Habitat Alpha. Ahead, firelight bounced off the vat's scrubbed surface.

Nadira took another swig of wine, the liquid sloshing in the bottle as she stumbled forward. "May our mother's be well, and may we never become them!"

Kiln, her Prime Servant, laced an arm around her waist, his massive biceps squeezing her close to him.

"Steady Naddie." With gentle hands, he plucked the bottle from her fingers, ensured that she was steady on her feet, and freed her from his grip. Six and a half foot tall, and blonde, he held the bottle out of her reach.

"I think you've had enough," he said, his nineteen year old voice deep and clear.

"Do you?" She reached up on tiptoe, clutched the back of his neck, and drew him to her awaiting mouth, covering his lips in a brief, drunken, wet kiss.

One side of his mouth broke into a lopsided grin, and he set to kissing her back, dropping his arms to wrap them around her. Seizing the moment, she snatched the bottle from his distracted hand, and held it over her head in triumph.

"You are too easy," she slurred, taking another sip before falling on her backside.

Kiln let out a frustrated breath, reached down, and set her back on her feet, "Naddie, I think we should go home."

"No. I want to see my friends."

"Alright, but just for a few minutes. After that I'm taking you home and straight to bed."

"So you're my master now?" Nadira teased.

"No, but if an Enforcer finds us out here, it'll be our third infraction, and I've made it a point not to die this week."

Two hovercrafts turned their noses to the walls of the dome. In unison, they shot forward. Their reflections grew as they got closer to the wall. Then, at the last possible second, they pulled up, followed the wall upwards, touched the ceiling, and looped back around to do it again.

Ahead, three girls and a dark haired boy sat around a crackling fire. Their voices echoed through the reservoir.

"... and then she said, Kiera, if you can't respect my home, I'll have no choice but to send you to Habitat Omega." Kiera, a dirty blond, shrieked to be heard over the sounds of the crackling fire and the gurgling vats. "Let's see how disrespectful you are when they're shaving your head and making you an Enforcer."

Kiln guided Nadira to the colorful blankets that were strewn on the dusty ground around the fire. Once she was settled, he planted himself next to her.

Shar-jon's her blonde hair was almost white against the flames. "Do you think she was serious?"

"She made the comm," Kiera said. "I'm leaving the day after tomorrow."

Shar-jon wrapped her arms around Kiera's shoulders and sniffled.

"You can't go," she said, her voice heavy with threatening tears. "You're not cut out to be a baldy."

"Tell that to my mother," Kiera said. "But don't worry. I have a plan."

"What are you going to do?"

"Tomorrow, after nightfall, when everyone's asleep, I'm running to Mahala. Me and Satch will be free." She took the hand of a raven haired, freckled, blue-eyed boy who sat next to her.

"Mahala?" Bragnia, a soft-spoken redhead, gasped. The daughter of a retired High Priestess of the Temple of Venus, Bragnia was new to the Outer Ring. "The free slave place? Kiera you can't. What if the Enforcers find you?"

"Then we'll die together. Either way, I'll never be an Enforcer and my mother won't control me anymore."

"Do you remember Empress Star's daughter?" Shar-jon asked. "They say she ran away to Mahala too."

"That's not what I heard." Kiera put a hand on Shar-jon's knee. "I heard that she refused to apply to Beta Council and her mother went nuts and killed her."

Shar-jon wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "That's crazy. Mother's from Beta aren't like that."

"All mothers are the same," Kiera said. "But, on the off chance that I'm wrong and Star did run away, I'll say hello when I see her in Mahala."

"No one is going to Mahala," Nadira slurred. "You don't even know where it is."

"Satch does," Kiera said. "He's been there before."

The group took in a collective gasp, and Kiera's Prime Servant's pale skin gained color as all eyes turned to him.

"You've been to Mahala?" Kiln asked.

Satch cleared his throat. "Well not there, but close. Kiera's mother sent me to work in Habitat Beta for a few months to pay off a debt. In the forest, near the wall of the Habitat, we would sometimes hear singing, and smell smoke. None of us were brave enough to sneak out and investigate, but we knew that something was out there."

"This is insane!" Bragnia threw up her hands. "You can't turn Rogue and run away to Mahala."

"Better than being an Enforcer," Kiera replied.

"You're throwing your life away."

"What life? The life that my mother wants me to have? No, I won't be her puppet." She drank from a brown bottle and leaned against Satch's shoulder. "Think about it. We'll be free. Free from their stupid slave laws, free from the petty rules of High Council, free from my dumb mother."

"And free from their ancient ideas," Nadira said. "Don't feed on the lies your mother tells you. Life isn't just about who's getting the High Council seat this year or who has the most control over their minions. How we're living, what we're doing, it's a prison."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" Bragnia asked. "We're women. It's not in our nature to be brutal."

"How else would you describe a society that buys and sells men from all over the universe, takes them away from their families, wipes their memories, presses them into slavery, beats them, and, when they're done with them, kills them?"

"I'd call it progressive. After all, men were doing it to women long before we did it to them. Look at Mars. They keep women locked up in camps and impregnate them in public. It's disgusting. We are only passing along the practice to those that invented the concept."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Nadira asked.

"Everyone believes that," Bragnia answered.

Shar-jon threw a bottle, missing Bragnia's foot by a few inches. "I thought I was inviting _you_ here, not your _mother_."

"May our mothers be well!" Kiera called.

"And may we never become them!" Nadira answered, completing the group's mantra.

"I'm not my mother!" Bragnia pulled her knees into her chest. "I'm just level headed."

"More like brain washed," Satch spat.

Bragnia ignored him. "Kiera, please don't run away. There has to be something you can do." She snapped her fingers. "Maybe my mother can talk to your mother, you know, get her to change her mind? My mother used to be a High Priestess in the Temple. She can be very persuasive."

"Yes, that's an excellent idea," Kiera mocked. "Please tell your mother about our little talk and perhaps, if the Mother Goddess wills it, instead of turning me into an Enforcer, they can execute me instead."

"I was just trying to help."

"Yeah, you were trying to help me. Help me right into the grave."

"Whoa, everyone calm down!" Nadira raised her hands, tried to stand, swayed, and fell down again.

Shar-jon's twin slaves rejoined the group. They were indistinguishable from each other, both possessing barrel chest, and powerful builds. They would have looked like any other man, if not for their green skin, long canines, and amber colored eyes. They sat, on either side of Shar-jon, the one on the left passing a bottle to the one on the right. The left one waited until his brother drank his fill, then reached his hand out for the bottle and took a long drink.

Nadira watched them, an idea slipping into her consciousness. "We will settle this with a hovercraft race."

"A hovercraft race?" Bragnia asked. "That's ridiculous and unsafe. You know, I would have expected more from an ambassador's daughter."

"I'd expect a mother to say that." Kiera rolled her eyes. "It sounds about right coming from you."

"Empresses please! If Bragnia beats Kiera to vat twelve, then Kiera stays, and calls Bragnia's mother for help."

"And if I win?" Kiera asked.

"Then Kiera does what she wants, and Bragnia has to bring her Prime Servant with her the next time we meet."

"Why would I bring him?" Bragnia asked.

"For the same reason anyone brings their slaves here," Nadira turned to Kiln, kissed him slowly to the oohs and aahs of her audience.

"That's disgusting."

"Have you tried it?" Nadira asked. "Come on Bragnia. What's Kiera's future worth to you? One little race? One little kiss?"

"Don't bother," Kiera flicked her wrist. "She's afraid, and her slave is disgusting. I wouldn't want to kiss him either."

"Nadira, is this about the junior High Council seat?" Bragnia whispered. "It's down to just me and you isn't it? Are you trying to sabotage me so that you can take the seat for yourself?"

"You can have the junior High Council seat. I never wanted it in the first place, my mother did."

"I'm sure," Bragnia sounded incredulous.

"First off," Kiera said. "Nadira will never serve on High Council because she has a brain and can think for herself."

"Yes!" Nadira cried.

"And second," Kiera continued. "Don't change the subject. I'll take you up on that race. I'll have you know that I am unbeaten in a hovercraft."

"You've never raced in a hovercraft," Satch said.

"Not now Satch," Kiera retorted. "So, Bragnia. What do you say? Race for my life?"

Bragnia squeezed her lips together, her already red face turning crimson.

"Fine. I'll play your stupid game."

Kiera smirked, and stood as the crowd's whooping and hollering floated over the bubbling reservoir.

Two hovercrafts sat close to vat number eleven. Each of their bodies were constructed of a single, circular frame that housed the seating area, and a long, straight tale making the ships appear like strange, white dragonflies.

Kiera climbed into one while Bragnia climbed into the other.

Kiln followed Bragnia in.

"Do you know how to fly one of these?" he asked.

"I'm not an idiot, Kiln. I've been flying hovercrafts since I was twelve."

Kiln held up his hands. "Fair enough. Just go once around vat twelve and back."

She smoothed her red hair back into a ponytail, her eyes focused on the vat. "I'll be fine. I don't need help from a slave."

Kiln frowned. "Fair enough." He climbed down from the hovercraft, and took his place next to Nadira.

"What did she say?" Nadira asked.

"She said that she doesn't need help," Kiln replied.

"Foolish."

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"Don't be such a worrier." Nadira hit him playfully on his bicep. She admired his strong profile, his well-muscled build. "Would you go with me?" she asked.

"Where?"

"To Mahala?"

Kiln paused, turned to her. "Is that the alcohol talking?"

"Maybe. But if it wasn't, what would you say?"

"I would say that we don't have to make that decision yet."

"But if we did?"

Kiln didn't respond, his eyes turning back to Satch who had taken his place between the two hovercrafts. He held up three fingers, then two, then one. When all of his fingers disappeared, the two hovercrafts were off.

The race was neck and neck. Then, Kiera's ship gained speed and pulled away on the outside.

Bragnia revved forward.

Kiera was a ship's length ahead as they reached the vat and headed in for the turn.

Bragnia's ship, flying on the inside, turned wide. Too wide. She bumped the tale of Kiera's hovercraft, turning its nose toward the vat.

Kiera's ship flew forward in its new direction.

In a panic, Bragnia stopped short, then pulled up just as Kiera's ship raced past her, and slammed hard into the side of the vat. Kiera's body flew out the front window and exploded in a mess of blood and gore down the scrubbed walls of the metal tank.

Icy water sloshed over the crushed ship and its driver.

"Kiera!" Nadira screamed, running to the ship. She reached the vat first, her stomach lurching as she took in the sight of her mangled friend.

Kiera lay broken and bloodied atop the wreckage of her crushed ship.

Satch pulled up short behind Nadira. He screamed. Falling to his knees, he crawled to his dead love, pulling what remained of her body into his embrace as the hovercraft glowed red, comming the Emergency Medical ships to their aid.

**Chapter 2**

Time stood still.

Alone in a cold cell within the Enforcer station, Nadira stared at the dirty green, potholed walls, her mind replaying Kiera's death on an endless loop. Her crushed head, her bloody clothes. Nadira's mind reminded her of every gory detail.

She didn't notice her mother's arrival until the middle-aged woman cried out her name.

"Naddie are you alright?" Grand Empress Marie Lumesta wrapped her thin arms around her child and hugged her tightly.

"I'm fine."

"I was so worried."

"Is everyone else gone? They split us up when we got here."

"Yes. You're the last one, I saw Shar-jon's mother on the way in." Assured that her daughter was still alive and well, Marie's temper kicked in, her chestnut eyes turning to daggers. "What were you doing at the reservoir? I thought you were in bed."

"Kiera's dead," Nadira blurted out. "We stole our mother's hovercrafts, turned off the anti-crash mechanism so Enforcers couldn't track them." Nadira's voice cracked as a tear slid down her cheek. "She flew through the glass."

Her anger abating for the moment, Marie placed a hand on her daughter's dark, kinky hair.

"I know," she said. "The Enforcer told me that you had been out there racing, drinking, and being... illegal with your slaves. I suppose it's all true." Her hand came up to the golden locket in the shape of a bean that she wore around her neck, and she stroked it anxiously. "At least you had enough sense not to turn off the medical alert."

Nadira nodded, ran a hand over her face. She had known Kiera since primary school. It was strange to think that she'd never see her again.

"Where's Kiln?" Nadira asked softly.

"He's gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"He's been taken away for execution." Marie looked around the empty cell.

"Execution?"

Marie's temper resurfaced. "Yes, execution. It's what happens to slaves who are found drinking, and hovercraft racing and Mother Goddess knows what else."

"Mother you can't let the Enforcers kill him."

"I didn't let anyone do anything," Marie smelled her daughter, leaned away in disgust. "Nadira you reek of alcohol."

"Mother listen to me!" she cried. "You cannot let them execute Kiln."

"You should have thought about that when you were out with your friends. Kiera is dead, and as for the rest of you, well, let's hope we can still carve out a life for you after this debacle. Do you know the favors I'll have to comm in just to have this removed from your record?"

"What about Shar-Jon and Bragnia?"

"Shar-Jon's mother has served on High Council for years. Her life will go on. Unfortunately, retired High Priestesses don't have as many connections. Bragnia's being sent to Habitat Omega first thing tomorrow."

"No," Nadira gasped. "Mother you have to help her. You can't let her become a baldy. This whole thing happened because she was trying to help Kiera. Oh, it's all my fault."

"I can't help her. I can barely help you. Now let's go."

Nadira bit her inner cheek and followed her mother out of the cell. She'd only known Bragnia for a short time, and although the girl was uptight, she didn't deserve the life of an Enforcer.

_I should never have mentioned that stupid race._

Guilt snaked through Nadira, squeezing her heart, as she marched behind her mother. They walked out of the Enforcer station and toward a bright blue hovercraft where Marie's Prime Servant, Maxwell, awaited them. His dark skin was nearly invisible in the low light. The door of the ship lifted open as they approached.

"Good to see that you are unharmed, Empress," he remarked, his voice rumbling through the night.

Nadira ignored him, entranced by the blue coloring of the hovercraft.

_The same blue as Kiln's eyes._

A tear dripped down Nadira's cheek. She thought of the man she'd owned for the last ten years, the man who'd won her heart the moment she'd set eyes on him. He kissed her at exactly three AM every morning as he snuck from her room. There would be no more kisses now. No hugs. No whispered promises. No warm touches. She imagined him being dragged into the Hall of Judgment for execution.

Her world turned cold.

_He's going to die, and it's all my fault. I'll never see him again, and it's all my fault._

She wished it were her execution instead.

Marie walked past her, climbed up the narrow stairs that led up to the ship, and dropped into her white cushioned seat. She fumbled with the safety straps before yanking them across her breast, forming a black X. She clicked them in place at the center of her chest and looked at her daughter who was still standing outside of the ship.

"Get in this hovercraft immediately. You have caused enough trouble for one night."

Nadira didn't move, her eyes glazed as she stared at the hovercraft.

"Nadira!"

Nadira shook her head to clear it. Her feet seemed to be made of iron, every step heavy as she climbed into the hovercraft and pulled her safety straps across her chest.

The engine purred. The ground dipped from view as they rose into the sky and headed home.

"I'll have to comm the Hall of Judgment to have this wiped from your record," Marie said. "What would make you act out like this? I thought we had a good relationship. You used to tell me everything. Now you just shut me out. Did I do something wrong? Did I say something?"

Nadira dropped her head in shame. In reality her mother didn't do anything wrong. Marie was fair, and allowed Nadira to come and go as she wished. The fact was, Marie represented the very society that forced her and Kiln to keep their love a secret, and for that single transgression, she'd fallen into the category of intolerable.

Nadira turned back to the window.

Marie let out a frustrated breath. "Fine, don't answer. I swear these girls today are the most disrespectful creatures I've ever encountered. If I had done this to my mother, she'd have me in an Enforcer camp before first light."

The hovercraft landed outside of their home. Egg shell white, and two stories tall, it possessed large black doors and more windows than Nadira had ever cared to count.

Jumping from the hovercraft, Nadira ran into the house behind her mother, trying to gather the words that would force her mother to act.

"Mother, you have to find out where Kiln is and stop his execution."

"No, Nadira, I have to think of you first, not the help. After all he's done, we shouldn't even be speaking his name."

"Mother please," Nadira stationed herself in front of her mother, blocking the way to the sitting room. "You can't just let him die."

Marie blew out a breath, and threw up her hands, "If there is time I will see what I can do for him. If not, then we can pick up another slave tomorrow."

"No! I will _not_ take another slave. I only want him."

"You're being insane. Maxwell, bring her a hot beverage, and help her to her room, please."

"Yes, Grand Empress." Maxwell gently took her arm. "This way, Nadira."

Nadira broke away from him, rushed to the wall communicator – the comm – and stood in front of it.

"What are you doing?"

"Find Kiln, or else every news feed on the planet will know what role I played in Kiera's death."

"Calm down." Marie held up her hands to her daughter as if she was a wounded animal. "Don't do anything irrational. I understand that tonight got out of control, and Kiera paid the price, but you are alive, you are still here. You can still do something with your life. Don't let your grief ruin your future."

"I love Kiln," Nadira said. "I won't see him die."

Marie grabbed Nadira's arm and shook her. "Don't you say that! Don't you dare say that in this house!"

"Bring him back to me mother, or else I will comm everyone and tell them what I've done."

Glaring, Marie took a step back, "You stubborn, foolish girl." She faced the wall comm. "Comm the Hall of Judgment."

It took a half an hour before Marie was finally connected to Hi-Roc, the head Enforcer. The brutish looking woman didn't seem happy to be woken out of her sleep.

"Grand Empress Marie Lumesta," Hi-Roc yawned, cracking her back as she stretched. "May your mother be well." She wiped the sleep from her eye, and coughed violently.

"Yours as well. Officer Hi-Roc, I'm sorry to wake you at this hour."

The large woman scratched herself, and raised a hairless eyebrow at Marie.

"What is it that I can help you with?"

"First, I must tell you that this is a very sensitive matter that will require your upmost discretion."

Hi-Roc's forehead wrinkled, her baldhead reflecting the light from the wall comm.

"Go on."

"My daughter has gotten herself into some trouble. I would like her record expunged."

"Expunging public records is no small feat."

"I'm willing to compensate you in any way I can."

"Fifteen thousand vesuvians," Hi-Roc replied. "That is the price for my discretion, as well as my services."

Nadira brought her hand to her throat.

"Fifteen thousand vesuvians?" Marie asked. "Don't you think that's a little steep?"

"For an Ambassador's daughter? Not likely."

"Regardless of what you may have heard about my salary, I live a very modest life."

"I'm sure. Fifteen thousand vesuvians, or else your daughter's discretion will become Venus' gossip by tomorrow."

Marie swallowed. "Fine." She picked up her touch screen, and with a few slides of her finger, transferred the funds.

On the other side of the screen, Hi-Roc monitored her touch screen closely. After a few seconds, she looked up at Marie, smiled with gold-capped teeth.

"Was the transfer successful?" Marie asked.

Hi-Roc squinted, as if trying to unravel a great mystery. "What transfer?"

Marie tilted her head, spoke slowly. "The fifteen thousand vesuvians that I just transferred into your account."

"Fifteen thousand vesuvians?" Hi-Roc whistled. "That's a lot of funds. What was it for?"

Marie looked at Nadira, then back at Hi-Roc. "For clearing my daughter's permanent record."

"Grand Empress, that sounds like a bribe, something that I would never take part in. I'm sorry to say that I'll have to disconnect this comm."

Marie's eyes went wide. "What? No, you can't!"

"A word of advice. Next time, don't interrupt my beauty sleep."

The screen went blank. Slamming her touch screen down onto the sofa, Marie let out a frustrated scream.

"That trickster! That sham!"

"Can she really do that?" Nadira asked. "Can she keep the funds?"

"What funds? According to her this never happened."

"But it did happen."

"If I try to go after those funds, she will bring me up on charges of bribery." She ran a hand over her face. "I can't believe that I fell for that."

"Well what do we do now? We have to get Kiln out of prison."

"Kiln is the least of my concerns. This will be your third slave infraction. They'll come to take you away in the morning."

"Take me away? But I was just released."

"You were released because I bribed the guards. We all did. By tomorrow, an Enforcer will knock on this door and drag you before High Council. You'll be banished, or worse, executed."

"No, mother there has to be another way. There has to be something else we can do."

Marie grunted in frustration. "There is one more person I can comm. Go to your room. I will come for you when I've spoken to her."

"Who is it?"

"Go to your room." Marie's voice left no room for argument. "I will come to you when I'm finished."

Eying her mother warily, Nadira complied, following Maxwell to the silver circle that hovered an inch above the floor. They stepped on, and the circle glided upwards, taking them to the second level.

When she was sure they were gone, Marie turned back to the comm.

"Comm Empress Drell."

The screen flashed twice before a woman answered. Her silver hair was smoothed back into a bun at the base of her neck, and her cool grey eyes looked upon Marie with not only recognition, but friendship.

"Marie?" The woman asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Hello Drell. May your mother be well."

"And yours."

"I'm sorry to comm at such a late hour."

"I'm old. I never sleep. What's the matter dear?"

Squeezing her lips together, Marie sat on the white sofa, and avoided the eye of the woman on the screen. Empress Drell was the Leader of High Council. If Drell lost faith in Nadira, then the powerful career that Marie envisioned for her daughter would become nothing more than an impossible dream.

"What is it, dear?" Drell asked. "Is something wrong? Is it Nadira? Is she in trouble?"

"Yes."

"What can I do?"

Marie shook her head. "I don't know. It's hard for me to say. You've done so much for my family already and I don't want to disappoint you."

"Disappoint me? Marie Lumesta, you could never disappoint me. You saved my life not once but twice. If there is anyone that I owe a debt to, it's you. Even if that debt requires a little...discretion."

Marie's hands fiddled with her necklace, her eyes not able to meet Drell's.

"Is it about what happened with those girls at the reservoir?" Drell probed. "One of them died, yes?"

Marie's eyes shot up.

"It is, isn't it? Was Nadira there? Is she well?"

Taking a deep breath, Marie stood, walked close to the comm, and looked her friend in the eye.

"Drell, Nadira was there when the group of girls were apprehended by the reservoir. She was there when Empress Kiera was killed. I need her record expunged and her Prime Servant released."

"Consider it done."

Marie nodded, embarrassment raising the color in her neck. "I'm sorry to have asked you but I had no one else to turn to. Hopefully this won't interfere with Nadira's future plans in High Council."

"Nadira is a bright girl. Just because she veers from the path does not mean that she's lost it entirely."

"Thank you, Drell. This means so much to me."

"Raise Nadira to be the woman that you know she can be. If anyone can do it, it's you."

The comm blanked off.

Wiping her sweaty palms on her lilac jumpsuit, Marie stepped onto the elevation plate and rose to the second floor. She knocked twice before turning the knob to Nadira's room.

"Mother? What's happened? Will Kiln be released?"

Marie bit her lower lip. "I still don't know if the person who I commed can help me," she lied. "They'll have to comm me back."

Nadira's face fell in defeat.

"But if they can, I will need certain concessions from you."

"Like what?"

She crossed the room and sat on the corner of Nadira's bed. "Like you and Kiln will only interact like master and slave, and nothing more. You will stop your visits to the reservoir, and you will accept the position at High Council if it is offered to you."

"But I don't want to go to High Council. I want to leave this place, I want to see the universe, I-"

"You will go to High Council. And if that application is rejected, you will serve on Secondary Council here in the Ring. Promise me."

Nadira shook her head, as if trying to wake herself from a particularly bad dream. "I promise."

Marie smoothed her daughter's hair. "Be patient. He may yet come home." She rose from her daughter's bed and headed for the door.

"Mother."

"Yes."

"Thank you for helping him."

"You're welcome. Just remember what you promised, and let's hope that he comes home soon."

You can find out more about this book here.

The Slave Planet grew out of a popular book from the 1990's titled, **Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus**. I read the title of the book and the first thing I thought was, _what if that were actually true?_ For years my mind worked on this concept. As the idea grew, it began to mix with African American history. I thought of the slave trade. I imagined that the genders were swapped. Suppose women rose to power, and enslaved men. What would that story look like? Would there still be love? Would men try to rebel and fight for their freedom? Would there be women who would speak out against this injustice like the abolitionist did? Eventually, everything congealed together to form, The Slave Planet. Original answers to old questions. Original spins on old history. And, perhaps, a cautionary tale for the future.

Encouraged to write by a close family friend at the age of ten, Seven has written hundreds of full length novels, short stories, poetry, and plays. After sharing a few of them with a friend, who also happens to be an author, she started on the road to becoming an indie author.

Seven Steps lives in Connecticut with her sweet cat, a handsome husband, and a beautiful daughter. When not busy writing, she enjoys reading, styling natural hair, and travel.

To find our more about Seven Steps:

Facebook Twitter Website

# Overload Flux by Carol Van Natta

# About Overload Flux

Space opera • Romance • Adventure

Someone is stealing the vaccine for a galaxy-wide pandemic that's threatening hundreds of planets.

Investigator Luka Foxe's hidden talent is out of control, making him barely able to function in the aftermath of violence. For his own safety, he must rely on an enigmatic, lethal woman he just met, but she has secrets of her own.

Mairwen Morganthur hides extraordinary skills under the guise of a dull night-shift guard. The last thing she wants is to provide personal security for anyone, or to be plunged into a murky case involving sabotage, treachery, and the military covert operations program that would love to discover she's still alive.

Two more deaths in a rising body count won't bother their enemies one bit. Their only hope for survival lies in revealing their dark secrets and learning to trust one another.

Overload Flux, a 2014 SFR Galaxy Award Winner, is the first of the Central Galactic Concordance space opera series that continues with _Minder Rising, Zero Flux,_ and _Pico 's Crush._

# Excerpt of Overload Flux

CHAPTER 1

**_* Planet: Rekoria * GDAT 3237.026 *_**

Their footsteps echoed in an empty corridor of Rekoria's planetary spaceport. Mairwen caught herself touching the outside of her coat pocket that held the wirekey, and ruthlessly controlled herself to keep her uneasiness at bay. Though neither man she accompanied down the tall, wide corridor had said so, she had the feeling they didn't want to be discovered doing whatever it was they were about to do.

Motion-sensor lighting triggered as they approached each segment. At ninety-four minutes before midnight, the noisy passenger area of the spaceport had been as busy as ever, but the commercial shipping section where they now walked was deserted. Trending galactic headlines and bright vids flashed silently on the continuous overhead displays along the corridors, creating constantly changing lights and shadows. It could have been worse; in the passenger section, the animated displays took up entire walls.

She walked two paces behind the two men, like any average, incurious security guard, and kept her expression blank. Her company uniform and long topcoat passed as conservative corporate wear at a casual glance. As long as no one noticed her heavy boots, she wasn't likely to draw unwanted attention to their group.

Personal security detail wasn't her usual assignment. While she did usually work nights, it was mostly as a solo guard or security systems monitor at large industrial complexes in marginal sections of town. This was supposed to be her night off.

She hoped the only reason she'd been chosen for tonight's activities was because she was a name on a La Plata Security Division "night-shift available" list of dozens, and not because she'd stood out in some way. She'd been careful to stay unremarkable. This was the first time in months she'd allowed herself to open her extraordinary senses even a little, noting and cataloging the distant sounds of automation and the stale scents of people. She shouldn't be doing it now, but the increasing tension of the two men she was accompanying was contagious.

The older man, Velasco, about her height, was entertained by the flashy wall displays in a variety of languages, and softly repeated the words that caught his attention. He again switched the padded strap of the large forensic kit he was carrying to his other shoulder. Lukasz Foxe, taller than Velasco by a dozen centimeters, stood straighter and carried two bags slung over his right shoulder, a smaller hardcase and a larger curved bag, and had a winter greatcoat over his left arm. He was leaner and clearly in better shape than Velasco. So far, Foxe hadn't said much.

When she'd received her orders from dispatch to check out a company vehicle, pick up the wirekey and a forensic kit for Foxe from the office, then pick up Velasco from a restaurant and take him to the spaceport—she had assumed she would then remain with the company vehicle while Velasco did... whatever it was he was here to do. Instead, for reasons unknown to her, Velasco had told her to come with him to collect Foxe from the gate of an incoming interstellar ship. The need for her presence certainly wasn't for her company or conversation, because once they'd entered the brightly lit spaceport, Velasco had all but ignored her. She was relieved. From what she remembered from meeting him once at a company event, he had nothing worth saying.

She'd never met Foxe before tonight. Dispatch's orders had included his company photo, which didn't do him justice. Even though he was obviously tired, he was handsome, with light brown skin and wide, angular cheekbones, and wore his casual business clothes with more style than Velasco's ultra-trendy but unflattering suit.

She was already familiar with Lukasz Foxe's name. She'd memorized most of the Investigation Division's investigator names and titles so she'd know whom to avoid. She didn't want the possible attention that came from being in the orbit of a blue-hot company star. She didn't know what a High Court-certified forensic reconstruction specialist did, but she had the feeling she was about to find out.

She hadn't quite figured out what Velasco's role was. From something he'd said in the first burst of jabbering he'd subjected her to as she drove him to the spaceport, he was with the Security Division of La Plata, but assigned to Investigation. She'd mostly tuned him out for the rest of the trip, choosing instead to focus on traffic, which wasn't well automated, especially at night. Etonver city drivers were allowed to disable vehicle autopilots, and mostly did, making for bad ground traffic, twenty-five hours a day.

The spaceport corridor split, and they turned toward the section with commercial interior warehouses. When they rounded a corner to the left, Velasco pointed halfway down the hall to a large cargo bay door of opaque flexglass. The logo said "Centaurus Transport" in huge letters. A smaller, human-sized door farther down to the left had the same logo. The two men stopped in front of the bay entryway, and Foxe looked to Velasco.

"Anything from the Port Police?"

One of the benefits of working for a security company was official access codes for police bands. Foxe's first order after arriving had been to tell Velasco to monitor the frequency from his percomp. It had been Mairwen's first clue they were expecting trouble.

Velasco activated the company-issued percomp he wore strapped to his wrist. It was a more recent model than hers; night shift tended to get refurbished leftovers. Tech Division had been nagging her to surrender her clunky hardware for an update.

"Nothing," Velasco said after a moment. Mairwen got the impression he hadn't been paying attention to it until asked. Fortunately, his assessment was accurate. Even though she hadn't been ordered to do so, she'd been monitoring the same frequency via live audio sent to the earwire adhered to her jawline, and had heard only two routine communications in the last eleven minutes.

Mairwen was becoming increasingly resentful at being kept off the net as far as what she was being dragged into. She had no idea why investigators from her company were going to the warehouse office or what they expected to find, other than something that would need a forensic kit. Meaning it was more than a simple slice by interstellar jackers or some ground-based theft crew. But she couldn't ask without drawing unwanted attention to herself, so she stayed quiet. It was one of the few times she'd ever wished she was a telepath. Most telepaths she'd ever met were under the thumb of the Citizen Protection Service, and she knew the steep price of that all too well.

The door frames of the transport company entryways had visible security monitoring devices in the form of flat camera eyes that looked glossy and new. She angled herself away from them, not knowing their peripheral range. If they were like the industrial versions she was familiar with, they'd only be triggered when the doors opened, but better safe than sorry. She considered whether or not a simple security guard would notice the cameras or think to point them out. Probably not, she decided.

Foxe checked the elegant, transparent percomp he wore on the back of his hand. "Still no pings."

He sighed and ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair, making it look even more unruly than it already did.

"Let's go in." He didn't look happy to be there. Mairwen sympathized.

Velasco held out his hand toward her expectantly, and Mairwen slipped the wirekey from her pocket and gave it to him. As he fumbled with the lock on the smaller door, she took a couple of steps back from both men and the camera eyes, toward the center of the corridor. She opened her senses wider to check that they were still alone.

Sounds came from the electric hum of lights, the pulse of the air circulators, and the whine of automated grav sleds. Somewhere inside the warehouse, a loose vent rattled intermittently. There were scents of lubricant, petroplastic, paper dust, and humans, mostly hours and days old except for the strong new scents of Velasco and Foxe. Velasco smelled of too many cosmetics, synthetic fabric, fruity alcohol, and meat, probably steak. Foxe smelled of wool from his coat and a natural buttery, subtle exotic wood scent that was incongruous in a spaceport. Velasco's scent was boring, but Foxe's was... interesting, almost intense. She caught herself just in time from stepping closer to breathe in more of it. _Very bad idea,_ her cautious brain told her.

Velasco couldn't get the wirekey to work on the small door, so he tried the cargo bay door. It lifted swiftly and quietly.

She was immediately assaulted with the unexpected stench of blood, bile, bowels, and recent death as colder air billowed out from the warehouse. She slammed closed her suddenly overloaded senses, blinked away involuntary eye moisture, and smoothed her face to hide her reaction. She was glad neither man had been watching her. They didn't appear to notice anything amiss, but she couldn't tell what normal people could smell. She focused on Foxe to see if he expected this magnitude of trouble, and thought he didn't. It wasn't likely to make him any happier to be there.

When they stepped in through the bay door, bright overhead lights in the warehouse blinked on. She hung back momentarily, thinking of standing guard in the corridor, but concluded the Port Police would consider her equally involved if she was outside or inside with Velasco and Foxe. She followed them in, tucking her face into the shadow of her high, wide collar as she passed the cameras. Velasco closed the bay door behind them and inexplicably handed her the wirekey again instead of keeping it. Probably he didn't want to be caught with it. She put it back in her pocket without comment.

Mairwen looked around for more security devices but saw none. She'd have liked the time for a more careful examination.

Before them were several disarrayed rows of waist-high palletized crates. Foxe and Velasco walked roughly parallel paths through them. They passed a line of grav sleds into a more open area. She followed Foxe's route and stepped to his left, stopping when they did.

She hadn't seen a lot of underground spaceport warehouses, but she imagined this one looked and smelled like any other. Except for the mute evidence of a wholesale robbery by a sloppy crew in a hurry. That, and the two dead bodies in a pool of congealing blood on the floor. From the smells, which she couldn't totally block even with her senses practically zeroed, the bodies were only a few hours old.

Velasco's shock caused him to inattentively drop the forensic kit with a crash, missing his own foot by centimeters. Foxe stared at the bodies for six or seven seconds, then turned toward her and focused on some point above and behind her to her left. He didn't look squeamish or nauseated like Velasco did, but he was paler than before. His jaw was tight and his breathing was shallow, like he was wishing he didn't have to breathe at all.

"Shit... shit... shit," Velasco muttered, mesmerized by the horrific aftermath of violence in front of him. He swallowed hard.

Foxe gave Mairwen a quick, assessing look, which she met with equanimity. He nodded minutely, perhaps relieved that he didn't have to deal with incipient hysteria from her, too. He turned his head to focus on his associate.

"Velasco, check the rest of the warehouse for doors and offices. Tell me what you find."

"What? Oh, yeah, okay," said Velasco, almost stumbling over the forensic kit at his feet. "I'll see if there's an evac map or something so we'll know what... Shit, is that more blood?" He leapt away from a black smudge and looked at the bottom of his shoe, then skirted away toward the wall and disappeared down a row of shelves. "Why don't they have auto lights... Oh, finally... It's a mess back here..." His voice trailed off as he all but ran away. Babbling seemed to be his method of coping with stress.

Foxe turned toward Mairwen again and activated his percomp. His earwire was probably as unobtrusively elegant as the unit. Investigation Division stars rated much better tech than night-shift guards. At least all the La Plata company percomps were encrypted for traffic and location, so a later net dump by the Port Police wouldn't be traceable to any of them.

"I'm at the warehouse. It's been sliced, and Leo and Adina are dead." His tone was flat, but his face showed a depth of emotion not expressed in his words. "I'll do what reconstruction I can before the police get here. I'll ping after." He disconnected. Whoever got that message wasn't going to be happy tonight, either.

His knowing the murder victims explained some of the look of distress in his hazel eyes, the look that said what he'd seen had been etched in his memory with acid.

He studied the nearby stacks of crates, as if memorizing them, then put his luggage on top of one stack and pulled on his greatcoat against the chill of the warehouse. He retrieved the forensic kit from the floor and set it on another stack of crates and opened it.

Velasco returned from his task and stopped near the suspended work surface along one wall. He looked up toward the lights, clearly avoiding the less pleasant things on the floor.

"There's a regular door in the back, and an office, and a full fresher. The alarm was tripped back there, or at least that's where it's blinking. There's nothing else, uh, like that." He tilted his head toward the bodies. He looked bilious. He turned away and picked up a stylus, as if to examine it, but dropped it on the floor. He retrieved it, but in trying to avoid looking at the rest of the floor, he bumped into the work surface hard enough to set it swaying.

Foxe happened to be facing Mairwen's direction again, so she saw him wince before he smoothed his face and turned to Velasco. "Why don't you go watch the back doors and monitor the Port Police chatter?" Though phrased as a suggestion, it was unmistakably an order.

Velasco had the grace to look faintly embarrassed as he headed toward the back. Mairwen had taken him to be older, though with decent bodyshop work, he could have been nearing civilian retirement age at 130, and no one would know it. His unprofessional behavior, regardless of whether or not he'd known the victims, made him seem absurdly young and inexperienced. Odd that he was paired with Foxe.

Foxe began pulling instruments from the forensic kit. It was obvious he knew exactly where in the kit to find each item he wanted. So as not to disturb him, she stood still where she was. She turned down the volume of the Port Police frequency on her percomp so she could listen for changes in audible rhythms from outside the warehouse. If the police weren't using their net, she hoped her senses might at least give her an early warning.

The tripped alarm, evident from the security system's blinking lights, should have brought a response within minutes, but the Port Police were infamously slow in handling incidents that didn't involve passengers. It made her antsy not knowing how long the alarm had been signaling, but there was nothing she could do about it. She focused her gaze forward and used her peripheral vision to watch Foxe work.

From what she could tell, the instruments he used were for detailed measurements or capturing images, like the cloud of little flying 3D cameras he was directing now. They resembled the nuisance flying adbots that increasingly swarmed retail shoppers and tourists throughout the galaxy, but Foxe's had camera eyes instead of holo projectors. She had the vague notion that crime scene investigation involved taking samples, but she'd never seen a reconstruction specialist in action. They weren't common, and Foxe was touted as an expert, which was undoubtedly why La Plata's Investigation Division had hired him. La Plata Security and Investigation specialized in providing the best, and set their fees accordingly.

He moved economically and gracefully as he worked, but it was still eating up the minutes. He was looking everywhere except the bodies, but his tense expression as he looked at her, which was increasingly often, said they were all he was thinking about. She supposed she might be affected, too, if they were her friends, but she didn't have any, so she could only speculate.

He hadn't said more than three sentences to her since she introduced herself at the gate, so his request now almost startled her.

"Morganthur? We're on borrowed time. Can you do something with their office comps, and still monitor the Port Police band?"

She didn't think he'd noticed when she'd adjusted her percomp. She made a mental note to be more careful around him.

He sounded tired and hurting, although she couldn't have said how she knew. A moment of uncharacteristic empathy made her want to help him, instead of act fog-a-mirror dumb like she ordinarily would have. Like she had for the past four years.

"Clone, take, or flatten?" she asked. Admitting to some comp skills was probably safe enough.

His eyes widened and an eyebrow raised, and she had the impression he was actually paying attention to her for the first time that night. She disciplined an impulse to flinch at the surprising force of his regard.

"Clone, preferably without leaving a trace."

To her relief, the connection broke when his gaze left her. He opened the small hardcase he'd brought with him, which turned out to be another forensic kit. He pulled out a clonewire and handed it to her.

She went to a large terminal on a nearby mobile table and inserted the clonewire. The wire was fast and the cloneware was glossy. It only took a few moments to breach the warehouse's barely adequate internal security and get their entire data hypercube. Centaurus Transport must trust its employees a lot more than the average company, she thought. On a whim, she found and cloned the security module while she was at it, noting with wry amusement that the warehouse was scheduled to have the new door cameras operational later that week. More worryingly, she discovered the intruder alarm had been tripped more than two hours ago.

Four minutes later, she disconnected the clonewire and wordlessly handed it to Foxe. She was unexpectedly... aware of his proximity, so she backed away fast to return toward her self-appointed post near the crates. His voice stopped her.

"I need your help."

He looked toward the direction that Velasco had gone, then back to her. His expression and tone said he really hated having to ask. "If you can handle it, I need you to search the bodies quickly, and tell me what you find."

He'd given her an out, but the despairing, almost haunted look that shadowed his warm hazel eyes and tense mouth were more than she could stand. For whatever reason, he couldn't handle it right then, and she knew she could. She knew death from way back.

"Gloves?" she asked. She didn't want to leave her biometrics around for the sniffers that even incompetent police typically used. She removed her topcoat rather than chance trailing it in body fluids. The warehouse felt cold but not unbearable.

He handed her a pair of microskins from his kit. She smoothed them on as she looked more closely at the bodies. They were about a meter apart, both wearing black civilian clothes and light coats. The dark-skinned woman would have been tall and imposing in life. One of her long legs lay across the lighter-skinned man's feet. His body was curled in a fetal position, so it was hard to judge, but she guessed him to be considerably shorter than the woman. She crouched between the bodies, balancing on the balls of her feet to avoid the combined pool of blood and less-pleasant fluids that had leaked after death. Her boots would leave a distinctive print if she wasn't careful.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

The corpses were starting to stink, so she cut off her awareness of it. There were other scents nearby, besides Foxe's, but too degraded to be of any interest, except a couple of hours-old human scents and maybe a hint of something medicinal. She cut off her awareness of those, too, dismayed that she had so unthinkingly and easily allowed them to register in the first place.

"Tell me what's in their pockets, anything unusual about their clothes. Anything you notice about their injuries," he said. Although he was turned away, she thought he might be watching her with his peripheral vision. He still looked pale, almost traumatized. "If you have to move anything, try to put it back like you found it, so it doesn't screw up the official investigation too much." His tone implied he didn't think much of the Port Police's ability to notice things like that. Given their reputation and lack of response so far, she had to agree.

She started with the man first. Foxe had called him Leo, and she finally put it together with the last name of Balkovsky that she remembered from the Investigation Division. He was the source of most of the blood and stench, and now that she was close, she could see why.

"A broken-handled forceblade is stuck in the man's left pelvic bone. The forceblade is large, maybe twenty-five centimeters. The strike came from right to left through his pelvis and intestines. He bled out." If the handle hadn't failed, the forceblade would have finished cutting the man in half and spilled more of his fried entrails. He'd died with an anguished look on his ash-white face.

Perhaps that was part of why Foxe couldn't look at the bodies. In her peripheral vision, she saw him shiver as if even his winter coat couldn't keep him warm.

She gently probed the body with her gloved fingers and searched the clothing, while avoiding the blood and tissue, and described what she found. Foxe had her clone the gory wrist percomp but leave it and the earwire on the body, as well as the ankle gun, jewelry, and a couple of wirekeys. When he told her to take and bag a joyhouse souvenir token, she did as he asked, but a hint of puzzlement must have shown on her face.

"It's a percomp. Leo liked hiding things in plain sight." He kept his eyes focused on hers, so she could see the effort it was taking to maintain composure, and his strong jaw pulsed once. It was like seeing someone unexpectedly naked.

She shifted her focus to the woman, Adina, whose body was lying on its right side, legs twisted unnaturally. She was feeling the pressure of time and worked quickly. "Holsters empty... pockets too. They were searched."

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

She started to show him, but he'd retreated to his resolute stare away from the scene. "Pockets partially pulled out."

"But not Leo's?"

"No." She continued her examination. "Blunt impacts on the left shoulder... Left elbow feels broken... Knuckles are bruised and broken... Percomp like yours on her left hand." She leaned in and looked at it more closely and saw the characteristic distortion pattern and pinpoint blood spots on the nearby skin. "De-rezzed. Probably a mister." Misters were small hand weapons that could temporarily paralyze or render unconscious. They were illegal in most places, but not in Etonver, where almost anything could be openly carried or concealed.

"A mister?" he asked.

Mairwen could have kicked herself. Dull security guards wouldn't know what mister damage looked like. But she'd already opened her mouth, so she might as well go on. "Two shots, maybe more. Left arm, neck."

"Misters aren't usually fatal."

She gently lifted the lapel and collar of the woman's singed flatcoat to look underneath. "No, but a forceblade through the heart is." The singed entry wound was unmistakable. The bottom half of the coat had soaked up most of the leaking blood.

She saw the hint of a tattoo on the woman's neck and pushed aside the shirt collar to see the rest of it, and the skulljack behind the ear she expected to find. Now the woman's bruised hand and broken elbow made sense.

"She did some damage to her attackers after the man—Leo—went down. Ex-Jumpers are hard to kill."

Jumpers were the military's elite special forces under the Citizen Protection Service. Unsurprisingly, both La Plata's divisions employed a large number of military veterans.

She made one more discovery. Under the woman's body, obscured by the blood-logged coat, were three identical, sealed packages of what looked like medical capsules, labeled with obscure identification codes and symbols. They were the source of the medicinal scent she'd caught a whiff of earlier. She shut down her sense of smell yet again, perturbed by how often that evening she'd been lured into breaking her own rules about using her extraordinary senses.

"Three squibs under her, maybe pharma or blackmarket chem samples," she told him.

"Bag them." She used her right forearm knife to lever each sample up and slide it into the bag he held open for her. She re-sheathed the flat blade and used her glove-protected fingertip to gently smear nearby blood around to obscure the shape of the void the packages had left.

She started to ask if he needed anything else from the bodies, but momentarily froze when she realized the rhythm of sounds from the corridor outside had just changed. Wheels on plascrete, the click of motion-sensor lights blinking on, human voices. Very likely the Port Police. If she said nothing, and the police entered the warehouse before checking in, she and her co-workers would be caught in a locked room with two murder victims.

Foxe noticed her hesitation and focused his eyes on hers. "What?"

Unable to come up with a plausible excuse, she gave him the truth. "I thought I heard something." It sounded lame. She looked toward the bay door they'd used twenty-three minutes before.

He considered her words a moment, then put the evidence bag in his kit and started rapidly closing it up. "I think we've pushed our luck far enough. We'll go out the back way with Velasco."

She quickly stripped off the gloves inside out and put them in her pants pocket, then grabbed her topcoat and the large kit he'd just finished sealing and slung its strap over her shoulder. He picked up his luggage and hustled toward the back of the warehouse. She kept pace right behind him through the jungle of shelves to where Velasco was standing. She was now glad he'd given her the wirekey earlier, because it meant they wouldn't lose valuable seconds waiting for Velasco to produce it. As she edged in front of Foxe and headed straight for the door, voicecomm from the Port Police band sounded in her earwire.

" _Base two, six thirty at Centaurus Transport bay side. No visible breach. Harris is downloading the keycode now. Sitrep in ten._ "

Velasco heard it, too. "Shit, the police are out front. They're getting the key now."

"We're done. Let's go," said Foxe.

Mairwen used the wirekey to open the door in the hope it wouldn't trigger another alarm. She calculated they had maybe ten seconds before the police entered at the other end of the warehouse. They'd be as unpleasantly surprised by the bodies as Foxe and Velasco had been. All in all, no one was going to be happy that night.

Once Foxe and Velasco were through the door, she sealed it and put the wirekey in her pocket, while turning up her senses to make sure more company wasn't coming. Foxe seemed all right, but Velasco's shallow breathing and fast heart rate said he was headed toward panic again.

She took the lead to get them walking fast down the corridor to get Velasco to put some of his adrenalin to good use. She heard a distant grav sled coming their way. She looked for and found the corridor split and led them into the side hall. She wanted to avoid triggering the motion sensors for the hallway lights, so she slowed to a stop after a few steps, as if adjusting the shoulder strap.

Velasco's breathing was heavy, but he seemed to be in better control of himself now. Foxe took the opportunity to call up a holo map of the spaceport on his percomp. She was relieved because it meant he could plot their path away from trouble and out of the spaceport. She'd already planned multiple escape routes the moment she'd learned the warehouse's location, but that wasn't the kind of initiative exhibited by unambitious night-shift guards.

"Cart coming," warned Foxe. Thankfully, his hearing was good enough to notice it. She felt him step close behind her. His unique, exotic scent teased her senses before she ruthlessly blocked it. What the hell was wrong with her?

Foxe's fingers brushed her arm. "Wait until it goes by," he said. Velasco nodded. She nodded, too, but stepped away because she didn't want Foxe touching her again. She put her coat on and sealed it, wishing it was lined with flexin armor.

Even when he was quiet, the pressure of his breath and the resonance of his voice rumbled in her ears, provoking a desire to hear more. _Very bad idea,_ the cautious part of her brain told her. She dulled all her senses to practically comatose levels. Her inexplicable and uncontrollable awareness of him was an unwelcome distraction, and dangerous. If the universe loved her, after tonight, she'd go back to her safe routine and never cross his trail again.

You can buy this book or find out more here.

_O verload Flux_ starts the Central Galactic Concordance space opera saga, followed by _Minder Rising_ , _Zero Flux_ (a novella), and _Pico's Crush_. More books are on the way, because there's a big story to tell.

A millennium from now, humans have expanded civilization to more than 500 planets in the galaxy, thanks to faster-than-light space travel, interstellar communications, and sophisticated terraforming capabilities. The Central Galactic Concordance government maintains interstellar safety and commerce with the Concordance Command military and the Citizen Protection Service elite forces. The CPS also has another important function: testing, registering, and making use of minders, humans with talents in telepathy, telepathy, and patterns.

Peace and stability have reigned for two hundred years, but underneath, trouble is brewing. Minders with mid- and high-level talents usually find their way into CPS service, whether they want to or not, and the required enhancement drugs have debilitating side effects. Jumpers, the special forces personnel with added hardware and body reinforcements for piloting ships and operating mech-suits, often suffer from debilitating waster's disease once they retire from service. The CPS has deeper, darker programs and powerful reasons to keep them secret. Minders, once a misunderstood minority, are now common in the human population, and want respect and freedom. The CPS, once the savior of civilization, has been using increasingly draconian measures to maintain control. Something has to give, and it won't be pretty.

Carol Van Natta is an independent author of science fiction and fantasy, including _Overload Flux, Minder Rising, Zero Flux,_ and _Pico 's Crush_, the first four books a space opera series; _In Graves Below (Magic, NM)_ , a paranormal romance; and _Hooray for Holopticon_ , a retro science fiction comedy. She shares her Fort Collins, CO home with a sometime mad scientist and various cats. Any violations of the laws of physics in her books is the fault of the cats, not the mad scientist.

Chat with Carol on Facebook, or check out her website. Be the first to find out about new releases by signing up for her newsletter.

Now that the fun is over (for this volume), we hope you enjoyed these samples! If you're craving more adventure, you'll be happy to know there will be more Portals volumes to come! To keep updated on Portal releases and the latest in science fiction romance releases, sign up for our newsletter!

# Need More SFR? Check These Sites!

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this volume of Portals, a group venture encompassing excerpts from our science fiction stories which are all available for purchase right now.

The concept behind Project Portals was a way of not only show-casing members stories but also a way to demonstrate the amazing sub-genres and variety of the stories that come under the heading of science fiction romance.

From space opera to post-apocalyptic to soft sci fi romance to hard sci fi romance to action adventure to bio-genetics to military to dystopian to space colonization to alien invasion and many more, the exciting genre of science fiction romance covers it all. And because there are so many sub-genres, you don't have to be a science or tech enthusiast to discover a love of science fiction romance.

Explore the other Portals Volumes here:

One Two Three Four (Coming soon: Five Six Seven)

For lovers of this genre and for those who'd like to explore further, we've compiled details about where to find your new favorite reads and authors.

Visit these virtual stops in the SFR Galaxy of great reads:

SFR Brigade (comprised of over 800 authors of SFR!) Facebook Fan Page | Blog | Newsletter

Veronica Scott's USA Today HEA, weekly new releases in SF&F Romance post, and Amazing Stories Columns Archive

Did you know there is a quarterly magazine devoted to science fiction romance? The Sci-Fi Romance Quarterly is FREE to download.

You can chat on Facebook with your favorite authors on the Science Fiction Romance Facebook Group or in Portals Project.

Or chat with authors and other readers on Goodreads.

No list would be complete without mentioning the awesome:

SFR Station

_Your source for great science fiction romance_

SFR Station on Facebook

The SFR Station is a safe-port for lovers of science fiction romance books. It is a community of authors, bloggers, readers, fans, and publishing professionals dedicated to the genre of science fiction romance. All of the books listed on this site are published by independent authors, small-press or imprint publishers. They have been vetted for quality. Most books are under $5, some are free, and all are great reads! You will find books of all heat levels, from sweet to smoking hot. All love is equal at The Station, and they proudly support authors of LGBTQ, Menage and atypical romance. New books are added weekly. Be sure to join the mailing list for updates on events and giveaways!

And finally, don't forget to visit the authors' websites for more in-depth information about their series and stories.

All the best from the group venture, Project Portals.

# A Special Thank You

The Authors of the Portal Project would like to thank...

Fiona Jayde for steering our multi-author ship to our amazing covers. She is wise and wonderful.

...and...

The Blurb Queen, aka Cathryn Cade, for generously donating the summarizing blurb for this collection. It is not an easy job to write a blurb for one book, let alone summarize ten books into one blurb.

And all of us who have benefited from SFRB would like to note that none of this would have happened had not Laurie A. Green started the Science Fiction Romance Brigade six years ago, and provided a space for 800+ SFR lovers to band together and scheme, er, plan to take over the universe.

# About Science Fiction Romance Brigade

After the smashing success of the December 2009 SFR Holiday Blitz, a multi-blog Science Fiction Romance book giveaway organized by Heather Massey of The Galaxy Express blog, the idea of creating a dedicated SFR community was hatched.

* * *

On March 25th, 2010, the SFR Brigade was launched by Science Fiction Romance writer Laurie A. Green, and a charter group of fellow writers and authors including Sharon Lynn Fisher, Heather Massey, Donna S. Frelick, DL Jackson, Barbara Elsborg, and Arlene Webb. In just over four weeks, the membership exploded to nearly 100 members.

* * *

With a roster of 800+ members, it represents the collective voice of Science Fiction Romance authors, writers, bloggers, professionals and enthusiasts with a joint quest of promoting their favorite genre–Science Fiction Romance.

You can find the Brigade on Facebook and...

  *     @sfrbrigade

www.sfrcontests.blogspot.com/
