Tag: Publications

  • The Arrangement

    The Arrangement

    My friend Kacey Ezell has a great new space opera series out, called the Ashes of Entecea* and I’m thrilled to be part of Remnants of Empire*, a new anthology set in that universe. Remnants of Empire launches on 7/26/24.

    Duty, danger, and unexpected romance await in this captivating tale from the Remnants of Empire anthology!

    On the planet Raneaux, two young nobles are ready to part ways. But when a series of devastating attacks rock their world, everything changes. Thrust into a maelstrom of political intrigue and violence, Aidan and Deirdre must confront their true selves.

    He’s a scholar who dreams of quiet libraries. She longs for adventure. Now, they’re fighting for survival and the future of their planet.

    As assassins lurk and conspiracies unfold, Aidan and Deirdre discover strengths they never knew they possessed. But in a world turned upside down, can an unlikely partnership become something more?

    Experience heart-pounding action, complex characters, and the birth of an unexpected love that could change everything.

    Remnants of Empire brings you a collection of interconnected stories set in a richly imagined sci-fi universe. 

    The holographic ad touting off-world adventure holidays caught my eye. I slowed my rapid pace to admire the frozen landscape that morphed into images of divers swimming with amazing deep-sea creatures. Chills skittered across my skin as I aimed my ubiq at the ad so it could scan the relevant information.

    “Add to my wishlist,” I told it.

    “Confirming add to Deidre’s wishlist,” the ubiq replied. “Reminder: you have a lunch appointment with your parents in ten minutes. At your current rate of travel, it will take you seventeen minutes to reach your destination. Do you wish to send a status update?”

    I ignored the ubiq and promptly slipped it into my pocket. With any luck, Aidan would get to the restaurant first, and my fashionably late arrival wouldn’t matter. My parents adored my betrothed—what an archaic term. In their minds he was perfect. It’s why they arranged the marriage contract.

    Don’t get me wrong. Aidan is a wonderful man. Kind, attentive, but not my type. He’s very smart and scholarly, and it didn’t take us long to figure out that we have different goals in life. He wants to make a name for himself as a professor of history. I want to travel. I want to go places and skydive and swim with alien whales and get into zero-g sports. He finds libraries as interesting as I find them boring.

    We’d be horrible for each other. I’d feel held back, and he’d feel—well, I don’t know, abandoned maybe. It’d be one thing if I wanted to go off and adventure on my own for the rest of my life and then come back to hearth and home when I felt like it, but would that be fair to him? Or to me? What if I found someone with whom I could adventure with? What if he found someone to be a homebody with? Would we be stuck in one of those awful marriage-in-name only things?

    I had to step around a holo-ad that popped out of the ground. “Stay informed with our latest updates on anti-monarchist activities—” If you make the mistake of walking through one, they will follow you—well, your ubiq—everywhere.  I didn’t have time to deal with viral ads.

    Thank all that’s good that we’re both lesser nobility—Aidan’s father is, I think, fourth in line for the throne. Being so far from power is why we can say no to a marriage contract. There are no world-ending consequences to either of us wanting to live our own lives. I doubt the ‘casts will even announce it, and if they do it’ll be buried in the day’s feed, and no one will care.

    My consolations and the rehearsed speech that I’d been working on since Aidan and I decided to part ways rolled around in my head as I made my way from the mag-rail station to Le Goût de l’Elysée. It’s the kind of place one goes to for special occasions like engagements and anniversaries, and that is no doubt why my mother chose it. 

    It was also the kind of place frequented by Raneaux’s planetary royals and judiciars and prime ministers and celebrities from all over Entecea. Frankly, I’m allergic to all those people, although I do endure them for my parents’ sake.

    As I crossed the cobblestone pathway, I wished I’d picked something other than spiky heels. There was a dress code though, so I had dressed up, partly out of guilt. I knew going into this just how disappointed our parents were going to be, and for some reason, I had thought that one of my nicer, semi-formal dresses would somehow make up for it. This one was gray, asymmetrical, with a high neck and cap sleeves, a minimalist design with sculpted details, and everything someone like me was supposed to be wearing for something important. Like I said, guilt, or maybe apology. But in dress form.

    The upside to l’Elysée was going to be that no one was going to dare make a scene—even though neither of our mothers were that type. It had been Aidan’s idea. See, I told you he was clever. And so very smart. 

    I sighed. Oh, if that were only enough. If only we had chemistry. I wanted that thrill, those butterflies, that out-of-control-in-love feeling. I wanted it all. Preferably now. And forevermore.

    Doormen in matching uniforms, complete with caps and white gloves, swung the doors open as I approached. It’s such things that make l’Elysée an experience in itself, particularly for the nostalgic.

    The foyer was done in a deconstructed chandelier, where each crystal was suspended by invisible nanofibers. To me, it had always looked like an exploded diagram of a chandelier, instead of an assembled piece. Art, I guess.

    The maître’d looked up from his tablet and shot me a smile. “Ah, Miss Pinet. How good to see you.”

    “Good morning. Are my parents here yet?”

    “Yes, Miss. They were seated about twenty minutes ago. Lady and Lord Stout have also been seated.”

    “And Professor Stout?”

    “I’m afraid not. Would you like us to ping his ubiq with a reminder or request his current location?”

    Sometimes people like the maître’d expected people like me to above carrying ubiqs. The really important people didn’t. Their staffers and aides did.

    “No, thank you. I can do it myself.”

    “Very well. This way, Miss.”

    And so he led me through the main dining room with its fleet of curved banquettes and gazebo-like hooded loveseats. It wasn’t quite noon yet, but I knew that it would soon be filled with glitterati, with the cream of Raneaux society coming together to impress each other over fancy lunches.

    The parents sat cozily on the veranda. It really was a lovely day for it with spring sunshine pouring in through slats strategically placed so that the light wouldn’t bother anyone’s eyes. Floral scents floated on the breeze, just a hint of them so as not to interfere with the more discerning palates that were bound to be l’Elysée’s best customers. It was no surprise that my mother had been making noises about having them cater the wedding. I just hoped that she hadn’t already booked them.

    Mother wore a long dress with a bolero top—lavender, of course. Lady Stout was in a similar outfit, but in mint green. It made me think they’d coordinated and that made my stomach hurt. Father and Lord Stout both wore what I called their uniforms—tunic-like business jackets that hit mid-thigh and pressed trousers, high-collared shirts, and cravats—like they might stop by the House of Lords and argue for this or that or the other. 

    The two empty chairs beckoned like a challenge. I really didn’t want to face them alone.

    Nevertheless, I braced myself.

    Here. I. Go.

    Read the rest in Remnants of Empire.

    *As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

  • Relics. A SF-noir-flavored nibble

    Relics. A SF-noir-flavored nibble

    I’m very excited for the release of Relics, a short story set in the same universe as Threading the Needle.

    When I originally conceived of a story that included a replica of Charlton Heston, I didn’t know any of the following things: Charlton Heston was Chuck to his friends. He and Toshirô Mifune were also friends, despite a language barrier. Heston said that if Mifune would have spoken English he’d have been one of the greatest actors of our time. Ironically, Mifune served in the Imperial Japanese Army aviation division during WWII and Charlton Heston served as a radio operator and aerial gunner in the US Army Air Service and would have taken part in Operation Coronet, the planned invasion of Japan. That gave me chills. 

    The thought of would-be enemies developing a friendship that lasted for the rest of their lives even with an ocean between them and despite the cultural gulf that also must have been there has its own appeal. This story is my tribute not just to that idea (ideal?) but to two of my favorite actors, Charlton Heston and Toshirô Mifune themselves.

    AIs don’t go rogue. Everybody knows it. Especially SAIs. Which never really made sense to me. They’re supposed to be people just like you and me, and people—flesh and blood humans such as yours truly—are sapient and we go rogue all the time.

    But you never know.

    Digital citizens were one of the first truly sapient AIs. Who knows what happens after a couple of centuries of rattling around, especially when you’ve been designed and built as an anachronism to begin with. Maybe they can’t handle change. If there’s one thing that the last three centuries have proven it’s that some people just can’t handle the world as it is, so why wouldn’t “digital citizens” lose it and go rogue?

    To be honest, I was surprised to find out that these digital fossils were still around, although with the rise of Nostalgism, maybe I shouldn’t have been. The Commonwealth tolerated the movement because it helped move the, shall we say less-than-desirable, off-world. That much I knew.

    A leggy brunette with doe eyes, ruby-red lips, and an hourglass figure—some things remain classics even in this screwed-up century—led me into a wood-paneled office and “He’ll be right with you Mr. Elliott,” rolled off her tongue with a distinctive twentieth-century lilt.

    Given that this was a museum, her accent and the throwback design of the office shouldn’t have surprised me, although I’d figured the front—a replica of the historical Grumman Theatre—had been strictly for show and expected the back to be, well, a little bit more twenty-fourth century.

    The desk was wood, the chair leather, and what had to be a mid-twentieth century television set complete with antennae was tucked neatly into a corner. No computers, no tablets, no holographic interfaces of any kind, at least not that I could see. Two couches fronted the desk, facing each other across a low table—also wood. A couple of books, huge ones, held it down, their covers sporting images from a cinematic golden age almost five centuries gone.

    I picked up the top volume only to find that while indeed it was made of paper, the pages were blank.

    “You’ll find us in compliance with the law.”

    Setting the book back down, I turned toward the commanding voice. Like the human who’d shown me in, the SAI in the doorway wore twentieth-century attire—in his case, a suit and tie. It looked a bit odd on his tall and broad but clearly synthetic frame.

    The pixelated membrane that covered the android skeleton mimicked human skin to an uncanny degree, one that immediately gave me chills. The face too did a remarkable job of emulating skin and coloring, placed as it was over a bone structure that must have been true to the original human—strong but not overpowering jaw, slightly curved nose, steely blue eyes. I’d seen images of SAIs of course, but never met one. It was the eyes that gave them away. They weren’t orbs inside sockets and didn’t move as such.

    “I’m not a cop anymore,” I said a bit defensively, I don’t know why.

    “But you are still required to report violations, are you not?”

    A smirk found its way onto my face before I could stop it. “I don’t make it a practice to inform on my clients. Tarnished I might be, but not that much.”

    He gave me a skeptical look and extended his hand. “Call me Chuck. I insist.”

    What a throw-back custom.

    Awkwardly, I shook his hand. Room-temperature like a corpse. While it emulated skin right down to the veins and calluses on his hand, there was no accompanying texture. Images of hairs were overlaid over images of veins. The calluses were as smooth as you’d expect a pixelated surface to be. Ironic, no? He was an image on a screen, just as he must have been when his original had been alive.

    You can read the rest of the story at the Baen Books website.

  • Pre-release Screening of Threading the Needle

    Pre-release Screening of Threading the Needle

    I’m pleased to announce the release of electronic Advanced Reader Copy (eARC) 1of Threading the Needle.

    No tuxedos or formalwear required. You can walk up the red carpet with me and get an advanced look at the entire novel right now. “Here it is!” (Raises champagne glass)

    A NEW START—OR AN OLD CALLING?

    Talia Merritt, a former military sniper once known as Death’s Handmaiden, is a woman haunted by her past. Her cybernetic arm and the implant that allows her to control it serve as a constant reminder of what she’s lost. But Talia is hoping to leave her past and her reputation behind and start anew on the colony world of Gōruden, a hardscrabble planet of frontier-minded people seeking a better life. And she’s finally earned enough to start making that dream come true.

    But soon, Talia finds herself thrust into the start of another conflict. Talia desperately wants to stay out of it, but she may not have that luxury.

    With the fate of a planet and her own peace of mind hanging in the balance, Talia must decide whether or not to once again take up the mantle of Death’s Handmaiden.

    Hard science fiction with a touch of frontier justice!

    “A new space western which combines hard science fiction with frontier action. Fans of Firefly will love this kick-ass female protagonist.”

    Praise for Threading the Needle:
    “If you want something beautiful and fun to read, you would do well to grab Threading the Needle as soon as it becomes available. This is space opera with Japanese flair and Western archetypes at its best.” —Upstream Reviews

    “Monalisa Foster is one of my very favorite writers.”
    —Kacey Ezell

    Get the eARC here now!

    1. Electronic advanced reader copy. Usually available only to book reviewers, but via Baen available for sale to enthusiastic fans. Note: this is not guaranteed to be the final version of the work! ↩︎
  • One-of-Antonia Excerpt

    One-of-Antonia Excerpt

    On May 3, 2023, my latest short-story will be out as part of The Ross 248 Project, a hard-sf shared-world anthology edited by Les Johnson and Ken Roy.

    I am thrilled to join Patrick Chiles, Stephanie Osborn, Brent Ziarnick, Laura Montgomery, Daniel M. Hoyt & E. Marshall Hoyt, Matthew Williams, D. J. Butler, Robert E. Hampson, J. L. Curtis, and K. S. Daniels on this roster of great hard-sf stories. Everyone one of these writers brings in their unique perspective, background, experience, and style to this anthology. I hope you check out their backlists.

    You can pre-order or check out the early release version of The Ross 248 Project here.

    HUMANITY’S HOPE FOR A BETTER FUTURE AT A NEW STAR

    A bold journey into a future where humanity and its children travel to a new star where they must overcome the unexpected challenges on the exoplanets that await them—or die trying.

    Traveling to the stars will be difficult, but not, perhaps, the most difficult part. What about when we get to another star? What then? Will the planets be immediately habitable? Not likely. Will those who undertook the journey be able to easily turn around and come home if they don’t find “Earth 2.0”? Almost certainly not. Therein lies the challenge: Finding worlds that are potentially habitable and then taking the time, perhaps centuries, to make them compatible with Earth life. They will encounter mysteries and unexpected challenges, but the human spirit will endure. Join this diverse group of science fiction writers and scientists as they take up the challenge of The Ross 248 Project.

    Here is the opening scene from One-of-Antonia

    The man in front of Suri was neither sick nor old. Despite the tubes and wires, the monitoring equipment around him, and the fact that they were in Pluto’s premiere clinic for the dying, he was very much a man in his prime. According to his file, Aidan Samuels was forty-two. It was an imprecise measurement—his real age was forty-two years, six months, three days, and sixteen-point-thirty-six hours—one that grated on Suri’s “nerves” such as they were. Tolerating such things without comment was one of the many adjustments that she had had to make.

    She may not have liked it, but humans trusted those who looked and acted like them more than those who did not, especially when it came to their health. That’s why she was wearing a humanoid skin rather than an arachnid one, even though having extra arms would have come in handy for most situations.

    “I don’t understand,” she said, glancing at the virtual-reality clinic supervisor.

    Dr. Benedict Lammens was tall for a human, one-point-nine-eight meters. She knew that he had let his hair go gray because he believed it gave him credibility and she could tell that the glasses he wore were just for the smart-glass lenses. Appearances were important to humans. They went to great lengths to project, not just credibility, but trustworthiness, intelligence—an entire list of positive traits—and mitigate an even longer list of negative ones. Would a four- or eight-armed surgeon with telescoping eyes convey competence and skill? Probably not. More likely to give them nightmares. 

    She filed the idea away, a side project for later, and connected to the clinic’s network. Samuels’ file said that he had gone into a very private and highly customized virtual reality in order to be with his dying wife. When her human body had failed, her corpse had been preserved for a later time in the hope that a cure for her neurological disease would be found. Her corpse had been placed in the family’s vault. There were thousands of such family vaults here on Pluto. It was known for its cryo facilities.

    While Samuels and his wife had been in the VR, thirty years had passed for them. They had essentially enjoyed their “golden years” while only a year had passed in the real world. 

    “Mr. Samuels here is refusing to come out of the VR,” Lammens said.

    “As is his right,” Suri noted, scrolling through the agreements between the SAIN and Samuels. “According to this, the Host agreed to keep him in VR for as long as he wanted.”

    “Unfortunately, the board of 3D-Printed-Homes wants him back in the boardroom,” Lammens said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his lab coat. “Some dispute or other. They need his vote to break a tie. Something about a takeover that might destroy the company he inherited from his father. Apparently the Martian cartels are involved and frankly it sounds rather messy.”

    “And he knows this?” she asked as she looked Samuels over.

    “The Host told him. He doesn’t care.”

    “Thirty years have passed for him,” Suri said, scanning through the VR’s logs. It had been just him and his wife for most of that time. There had been other constructs in there, but only artificial ones. No other real person had plugged in and interacted with them except for the Host. “And he’s just lost his wife. Of course he doesn’t care.”

    “We need some time to sort things out with his Board.” Lammens shrugged. “They’ve threatened to pull his credit, force our hand. Sue us. It could get ugly and undermine the trust in both SAIN and our facilities here.”

     Suri had worked with terminal patients and their families before. She didn’t understand grief herself, but she did have to work with it and around it. It was as much a part of working with humans as fixing their bodies was.

    She took hold on Samuels’ left hand. It was cool to the touch, with fading callouses and a simple gold band for a wedding ring. Tiny scars peppered three of his fingers and the backs of both hands. A man whose family had their own vault here, who could afford non-subjective years in VR, hadn’t had those tiny scars removed. Often such things were indicative of sentiment or a lack of vanity.

    She reviewed his public appearances. Not a vain man, but one who definitely understood the importance of appearance enough to opt into standard enhancements—teeth, hair, eyes. A man who liked to work with his hands too by the look of it—there were lots of images of him doing physical labor, building things, making things.

    Humans had such strange affectations. She ran her fingers along the pale scars. Nicks really, tiny little things. What had made them? She wanted to know. It would help her understand humans, which would help her help them, keep them alive, keep them healthy, give her purpose.

    There was a hum in the back of her mind, like a warm caress. She smiled. Antonia, her AI-mother approved. A human would have said that she was giving her blessing. 

    A plan to help Samuels and the decision to proceed was processed at AI speeds. She let go of Samuels’ hand and sat down in the chair next to his bed. 

    “Wait, what are you doing?” Lammens asked.

    “My job.”

    In the time it took her to answer, she ported the specs for her VR avatar to the Host. Suri liked to keep things simple. She liked to manifest as the statistically likely progeny of the two humans who had raised her.

    After all, she was Catrina and Ian Hinman’s daughter as much as she was Antonia’s. So she’d adopted her foster father’s dark hair and mismatched eyes (one blue, one brown) as well as her foster mother’s oval face and sun-kissed skin. 

    Last time she’d been in VR her avatar had worn an eclectic mix of calf-length skirt with a bustle, combat boots, corset-top, and short, bolero jacket with epaulets, all in blues and greens. She discarded the idea of aging her avatar, since most humans, especially older ones, presented as younger, healthier versions of themselves. VR was seductive because one could be anything, or anyone, and things weren’t what they seemed.

    Lammens had stepped back, a skeptical look on his face. But he didn’t say anything. She took it as assent.   

    Suri closed her eyes. She and SAIN came to an agreement at AI-speeds: unless Samuels’ real-world body was in danger, no one was to intervene or interfere. Once inside, she’d be stuck in the VR with Samuels until he agreed to leave or they shut it down and forced him out. Suri would be cut off, her ties to SAIN and her AI-mother severed. 

    She felt herself move as if through a tunnel of light, riding effortlessly through corridors that didn’t exist in physical space.

    The final bit of it, entering Aidan Samuels’ VR, was like fighting her way through a wall of fire. If she’d had any sense of self-preservation, she’d have turned back. 

    Samuels didn’t want her there. That much was clear. Painfully so.

  • I have a shiny new cover

    I have a shiny new cover

    Check out this shiny new cover for my first Baen novel! Isn’t it awesome? I got chills when I first saw it. This is Talia Merritt with her heirloom 1911 on the newly colonized world of Gōruden.

    Available for pre-order here.

    Signed copies will be available through this website upon release, which is currently set for December 2023.

    If you’re interested in updates for Threading the Needle, you can sign up for my newsletter here.

  • Celebrate with me!

    Celebrate with me!

    When I gave in to the writing bug back in 2015 and started writing fiction again there was one specific thing on my bucket/wish list: to become a Baen author.

    I’ve been a huge fan of Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga* since I discovered it via one of those book-of-the-month clubs way back when. I’m pretty sure that’s how I discovered Baen and I would re-read that series every year, whether or not there was a new release. Back then I wouldn’t have dared think that I would get to write for Baen or get to know the publisher, Toni Weisskopf, someone for whom I have deep respect).

    Over the past few years, I’ve had the good fortune to make it into several Baen anthologies, like The Founder Effect* (hard SF), World Breakers* (military SF) and Robosoldiers*. Resilience, my Robosoldiers short story, was named one of the year’s best by Tangent Online.

    That’s why I’m so thrilled and excited to announce that I’ve signed a contract with Baen Books to publish a new space opera, called Threading the Needle (press release here). It is scheduled for release in October 2023, so mark your calendars.

    Inspired by the John Wayne movie El Dorado*, Threading the Needle is the story of Talia Merritt, a wounded veteran turned bodyguard, who joins forces with her old sniper partner. Together, they help terraformers fight a rival who is trying to steal the secret that will bring the newly colonized planet of Gōruden closer to independence from the corporate nobility running Earth.

    Space opera is my absolute favorite genre to write. I can’t wait for you to meet my heroine and join her on this adventure.

    Sign up for my TtN newsletter, to be notified of eARCs (electronic advanced reader copies) and pre-order availability.

    • Cover for Ravages of Honor: Conquest (Book 1)
    • Cover for Ravages of Honor: Ascension (Book 2)
    • Cover for Ravages of Honor Lineage
    • Cover for Dominion: A Ravages of Honor Novella
    • Cover for Featherlight: A Ravages of Honor Novella


    *As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

  • Excerpt from Resilience, coming June 7, 2022 in Robosoldiers

    Excerpt from Resilience, coming June 7, 2022 in Robosoldiers

    When Stephen Lawson* asked me to be part of his new Baen* anthology, Robosoldiers* an anthology about augmented soldiers and military robotics I wasn’t sure what I was going to end up writing. Unlike all the militarily credentialed co-authors in this anthology (some of these guys are real heavy hitters) I am the fork-and-knife school variant, if even that. I don’t have any military service or credentials. Country of origin did matter in the mid-1980s when I was still a cadet and aspiring to be more. The more was out of reach for many reasons, including the peace dividend that came out of the fall of the Berlin wall, a good thing.

    My experiences have been on the other side of conflict–the civilians, the refugees, the collateral damage. I was born and grew up behind the Iron Curtain. I didn’t realize just how meaningless those two words had become until recently when a clerk asked me where “the incident” took place and I said “behind the Iron Curtain.” Without batting an eyelash she asked me the date and address so that she could request the medical records. I guess she was thinking it was a night club or something and maybe an ambulance or hospital was involved because she certainly gave no indication that she actually understood what she was asking for. When I related her request to close friends they suggested I give her the address of Ceaucescu’s grave or perhaps that of the Sighetul Marmatiei Memorial Museum for Communism Victims. I maintain that it would still be lost on her (and her ilk).

    Stephen did jokingly tell me what he didn’t want (I am first and foremost a romance writer, whether that means romance or Romance) which is always helpful. So for those of you who read me primarily for my romances, know that Resilience* is not a Romance or a love story, although I could not resist working in a slight romantic angle at the end.

    Readers and fans of mil-sf, like readers and fans of all other genres, are always clamoring for something new. For something different. So I gave it to them. In case I haven’t said it, Stephen, thanks for affording me this opportunity because you knew going into it that it was going to be different and let me play anyway.

    What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or so they say. 

    They are full of shit.

    But then again, philosophy has never been my strong suit.

    Shrug.

    My scars are the first thing people notice about me. Even as they avoid noticing, looking anywhere but my face, the scars define me in their eyes. 

    Not my rank—Sergeant.

    Not my name—Engel, Karlie.

    Not my uniform—Air Force.

    It took me awhile to get used to the locked gazes, the way people’s eyes would unwaveringly lock onto mine because eyes are supposed to be safe.

    “It’s not your fault.”

    I know it’s not. 

    One of the more annoying things about my PTSD implant (or my anti-PTSD implant as the doctors would like me to think of it) was the way it—oops, I’m supposed to think of the intelligent agent as “she”—talked to me. It wasn’t its fault. It was the way “she” was programmed. She goes by Nicki. It’s supposed to be a “she” because female rape survivors are paired up with female counselors. Something about trust.

    Like so many sailors, soldiers, marines, and airmen—I was never really alone in this—I was a casualty of war. Wrong place. Wrong time. 

    As far as billets went, a military air traffic controller in Germany was about as safe an assignment as possible. I wasn’t going into a war zone or into combat. 

    Unfortunately no one told the bad guys. And they wouldn’t have cared. I was alone and unarmed. I hadn’t even been in uniform. Just another tourist as far as they were concerned. That is, until they found my ID.

    “Ground yourself in the present,” Nicki said. Her voice was always calm, hypnotic, meant to be soothing, and supposedly tailored just for me.

    I took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly to a count of four, my belly rising, my hand against my chest. It was supposed to be calming, part of a set of coping mechanism that I’d been taught. I did it to shut Nicki down. It—she—always booted up when my hypothalamic–pituitary–adrenal axis kicked into overdrive. I hated that I knew that term. I shouldn’t have to know what an HPA-axis was.

    About two years ago, I was recruited for a clinical trial to help test brain implant technology. Never my favorite thing, the MRI was even less so after my month of captivity. The jack-hammer sounds of the magnet were too reminiscent of gunfire, the having to lay still too reminiscent of being bound to a bed, the voices drifting in over the speakers too much like their disembodied voices as I escaped into my head while I lay helpless underneath them. 

    And having to relive it all so the MRI could map my brain was no picnic either. 

    “This is a flashback. It’s not real,” Nicki reassured me.

    It had been with me for about a year. Nicki controlled the circuitry—fine wires much smaller than a human hair—running through my brain and I had benefited from some of the physical stuff the implant does. Thanks to the mapping done by the MRIs, the implant knows which parts of my brain become active during a flashback. It keeps track not just of my pulse and temperature and respiration, but a bunch of other stuff. I stopped trying to figure it out. All I needed to know was that high levels of certain chemicals were bad and low were good and that the implant stimulates parts of the brain to counteract them. And then Nicki activates.

    It—she—is a little bit like the imaginary friend a kid might have: completely real to me, right down to the way she “smells.” There’s a light blue halo all around her, something the designers put in, so that I wouldn’t think she was an actual person I was seeing. Thank God for small favors.

    It has appeared to me as different people. I’ll be watching TV and find a character I connect with and poof, Nicki takes on her form, her mannerism, her facial expressions. She sounds like the character too, which bothers me far more than the other things. I think it was the blindfold. They kept it on almost the entire time. 

    So, I’ve stopped watching television shows or movies. I’d always been more of a reader anyway, but after a few months, she started manifesting as the female characters in my imagination, so she robbed me of that too.

    “Where are you, Karlie?” Nicki asked.

    The kitchen. I’m in the kitchen.

    “What are you doing?”

    Boiling water.

    Except that there was no longer water in the pot. It was gone and the pot was giving off a metallic smell reminiscent of the way guns smell as they heat up. All that was missing was the sulfur and that too kicked in, a phantom scent courtesy of my memory. 

    With a trembling hand, I shut off the burner and leaned against the kitchen counter so I wouldn’t curl up on the ground. Once again, I’d become lost in the white-noise of boiling water. The last thing I remembered was standing over the stove, watching the first bubbles form along the pot’s bottom.

    I’d wanted pasta with butter and garlic.

    But not anymore.



    • Cover for Ravages of Honor: Conquest (Book 1)
    • Cover for Ravages of Honor: Ascension (Book 2)
    • Cover for Ravages of Honor Lineage
    • Cover for Dominion: A Ravages of Honor Novella
    • Cover for Featherlight: A Ravages of Honor Novella

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  • Excerpt from “Good of the Many”

    Excerpt from “Good of the Many”

    I’m very excited to share with you the opening of my short story, Good of the Many, released today in Worldbreakers, an anthology edited by Tony Daniel and Christopher Rucchio.

    Dedication

    Greater love hath no man…in recognition of the brave souls, Peter Wang, Alaina Petty, and Martin Duque. You embraced your duty sooner than you should have had to.

    There’s nothing quite like walking into a tomb, although technically—I guess—it’s not. We’re not exactly underground or under a church, even though storage unit six is part of the UENS Sanctuary (T-AH-1749) and her motto is “For the good of the many.”

    That must make stasis pod 06-004 a crypt. No, that also didn’t fit. No one—not one of the hundreds of citizens—inside Sanctuary were dead. Technically.

    There were two dozen sealed pods inside unit six, each one twice as wide and deep as a coffin, but not twice as long. My steps echoed as I made my way down the rows and rows of pods, trailing a pool of light cast by a lantern floating off my right shoulder. Its repulsor field made a barely audible hum as its weak light cast long shadows. Shadows that slithered in a place where nothing had moved since I was here exactly one year ago.

    I shuddered, my skin crawling and dimpling into goosebumps that raised the hairs on my arms.

    Get hold of yourself, Elena.

    (more…)

  • 2019, A year of changes

    First of all, Happy New Year, one and all.

    Last year saw the words “The End” go on my space opera. It came in at a respectable 150,000 words. It’s a mix of futuristic nanotech, genetic engineering, the clash of cultures, feudal politics, sexy romance, and swords.

    The new year is also supposed to see a new short story and two novellas, all as part of anthologies.

    On the self-publishing side, I plan on re-releasing a short story in June and a novella in February. The novella is a bit of conundrum. I’m tempted to expand it and make it a second edition, one with additional content and some added steam (i.e. that means sexier), along with a sexy cover that I can’t wait to show you.

    The major change this year is that all my self-published ebooks will be available to my newsletter subscribers two weeks before they are released to the rest of the world. So, if you want to take advantage of this, you have to be on my subscriber list, i.e. my super-fan list.

    If you’re not on the list, you can sign up under “Newsletter Opt-in” on the right-side of the screen. Go ahead and do it. It’s easy.

    I’m not into making new year’s resolutions, but I will say that my goal is to make 2019 a more productive year overall, with sequels and side stories for my space opera and a sequel to Promethea Invicta. Speaking of Promethea, I’m eagerly awaiting a better microphone (due here next week) so I can produce an audio version. I’m also very excited to announce a collaboration with Tom Kratman. More to come on that.

    Meanwhile, my short story, Equality (first published in MAGA 2020 & Beyond) is live as of today directly from me via Bookfunnel (in your favorite format), as well as from these vendors (Print, Kindle, Kobo, iBooks, Scribd, D2D). And of course, it’s available through your favorite library as well; just ask your librarian.

  • Happy Father’s Day!

    As promised, in honor of Father’s Day, To Be Men: Stories Celebrating Masculinity is live. If you pre-ordered, your eBook is available for download now.

    Whether you like science fiction, fantasy, military sci-fi, historical, or contemporary, adventure, humor, interesting characters, or even thought pieces, this anthology has a story for you.

    My story, “Cooper” is a tribute to Jeff Cooper, one of the iconic, real-life figures associated with the M1911 and the 45ACP. This story was inspired not just by the idea of a sentient/sapient gun. I also found inspiration in The Wizard of Oz, in the fact that the Tin Man had in him, what he was so desperately seeking–a heart. Like the Tin Man, my protagonist is in search of something he thinks he’s lost.

    Scott Bell‘s gritty cop story, “Earning It” explores the meaning of valor and honor. A writer with a unique voice, Scott balances out the grittiness with his trademark humor.

    J Trevor Robinson‘s “Let the Chips Fall Where They May” doesn’t give us the “gentlemen thieves” of the typical pop-culture casino heist story. Inspired by his own father, it is instead the story of a commander, a role model, and a father responsible for the lives of so many others.

    William C. Burns answers the question “So, what are wizards doing in the 21st century?” in his fantasy, “The Heaven Beasts.”

    Karina L. Fabian serves up a noir-style detective story complete with dragons and fae. If you’re a fan of the movie, Bright, this one is definitely for you.

    Michael W. Herbert, a Navy veteran who served in Vietnam, wrote two stories for this anthology, both based on real life events–one about dealing with rape, and another about defending a gay shipmate. I’m particularly fond of the way he handled both of these controversial subjects. As Michael says, “A mature man does not always know what to do, but he will do what he can to help.”

    Richard Paolinelli gives us a dystopian story, “The Last Hunt.” Unlike so many other zombie stories, this one is about one man’s devotion to his duty and his country.

    If you’re a Sherlock Holmes fan, I think you’ll really enjoy Ann Margaret Lewis‘s “The Affair of Miss Finney.” Holmes pursued many dark crimes, but Doyle never addressed the crime of rape. So, how would Holmes deal with the worst crime a woman can suffer?

    In “For Man or Beast,” award-winning science fiction author Brad R. Torgersen, plunges us into a story about a future, untamed frontier where we discover that it is about being men and women that makes us essential not just to each other, but to civilization.

    “Street Fox” by C. J. Brightley is set in her Erdemen Honor universe. Children need to believe in heroes. And not just in this fantasy, but in the real world.

    In “Bring the Pain,” veteran and writer T. L. “Tom” Knighton, delights and entertains us with a story about a guy who is, quite literally, a tank.

    In “The Messenger” Lloyd Behm II makes us cheer for an aging green beret who keeps his oaths, even in a post-apocalyptic world where the US no longer exists.

    Marina Fontaine‘s “Picture Imperfect” is set in the near-future dystopia of her Chasing Freedom novel. Her hero is forced to choose between protecting his family and complying with a system that provides him with comfort and power.

    Jon Del Arroz‘s military sci-fi adventure, “Compassion,” shows us that we must continue to fight the good fight, to fight for what is right.

    Newcomer Jamie Ibson‘s story, “Priorities” takes us into the world of the school resource officer, the cops that investigate offenses involving students and schools.

    No speculative fiction anthology would be complete a werewolf story, right? Julie Frost‘s “Man-Made Hell” mixes science-fiction and the supernatural, giving us a character who embodies virtus (the manly virtues) no matter his form.