The first scout ships of the Chrysallaman Empire made contact in 1947. Their mission was simple: find a suitable planet for colonization. Earth—HG-281—was the perfect target. Rich with land, minerals, and water, the blue planet could boast only of a primitive race of defenders known as Humans, bugs who could be easily squashed by the might of a single Chrysallaman’s mind. When one of the scout ships is unexpectedly brought down, the advance party is forced to return to their home planet 30 light-years away to report and regroup. In their wake, they left behind a broken ship, dead crew members, and a young alien boy who would grow to become one of Earth’s greatest assets—and her greatest ally.
The lizard-like aliens would be back, and in force. Mankind must prepare a strategy capable of defending against not only superior technology, but superior psychic ability and strength. It will take an elite group of military personnel, brilliant scientists, a sombrero-wearing alien, and another generation to plant the seeds that will grow into a World Wide Defense, the likes of which the Chrysallamans have never known.
> 'Best sci-fi book ever.' C. J. Anaya Author of The Healer Series
> 'Outstanding sci-fi novel, humorous and very intelligent.' Kitty Smith. Top 500 Reviewer
> 'This is an especially fine debut novel.' Grady Harp, Hall of Fame. Top 100 Reviewer
> 'Exciting and thrilling start of the F.O.R.C.E. science fiction series.' Bits About Books
> 'It kept me wanting to read from the very beginning.' Deneale's Book Buzz
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They live among us. We know they are there. No government can control them; no authority can stop them. Some are evil. Some are good. All are powerful. They inhabit our myths and fairy tales. But what if they were real, the witches, wizards, and fairy godmothers? What if they were called "adepts" and an ancient evil stalks them? An assassination attempt on the head of the American Meta Association guild sends adept Peter Branton looking for who wants him and his leader dead. Finding the beautiful, shape-shifting assassin leads him to his real enemy, an enemy that is much worse and much more dangerous: living gods of Atlantis. Branton must team with up with his would-be killer and a mysterious warrior to defeat the gods of strife that are intent on starting a war that could devastate all mankind.
In the future, the only solution to mass overcrowding and dwindling resources is the lottery. A game where people are paid to play but, if they win, they legally become food. Two such lottery-winners, a suicidal teenager named Sammie and an impoverished middle-aged woman named Kim, find themselves 'purchased' by the upscale Bistro Viande which is run by celebrity Chef Nick Delano and his jaded sous-chef, Anne. In the few remaining days of their lives, Kim decides to make the best of her life in enjoying what few pleasures remain for her, while Sammie decides to make the best of her death in ensuring she is at her tastiest. Little does anyone else know, however, that Sammie hides a dark secret, one that could both save her life and destroy the Bistro.
Anne stalked in and shouted “What the hell are you doing!?” Sammie and Kim looked at each other. Sammie stammered and Kim said “What do you mean? We just did as you told us. We weren’t trying to escape or anything like that. Just sitting here.” Anne pointed at them and said “You took that shower and then put your grungy, dirty clothing back on!?”
Sammie nodded quietly “Yes ma’am.” Kim squinted at first, but then smiled. Kim said “Wait, you’re so pissed, that you’re going to send us back into that hot shower.” Kim chuckled and said “We should piss you off more often.”
Anne stared at her coldly and replied “It’s not cheap!” Sammie pulled off her shirt and said “…or legal.” Anne shot her a look and Sammie held up a hand “Not that I’m complaining at all. We really enjoy and appreciate it.” Anne smiled wryly “It’s a perk of being food. The law says using hot water to wash a person is an illegally wasteful practice.” Anne cocked her head to the side lightly and continued “But… you aren’t people anymore and the use of hot water in cleansing of food in its preparation is legally allowed.” Sammie’s jaw dropped “That’s freaking genius!” Kim started to unbutton her pants and said “But, you’re not allowed in, Anne, are you?” Anne shrugged “The only time I’m ever in there is when I’m force-shaving a runner chained to the wall. Trust me, I’m not enjoying the water during those times.”
Sammie said “But, you never, you know… when no one is looking, or maybe between shipments ever want to hop inside this thing and get an actual, nice shower as opposed to those two-minute ice-bucket pieces of crap we’re allowed to have?” Anne shook her head “Never.” Sammie cocked her head to the side and said “Really? I mean, aren’t you even tempted.” Anne replied darkly “It’s an instrument for cleaning food. All the women who shower in there, they die.”
Kim pursed her lips and asked “Is it because of too many bad memories?” Anne’s gaze softened, but only for a second. She shook her head and it was gone “Just rinse off and get ready.”
They both disappeared in while Anne waited outside. In a few minutes, giggles and splashing could be heard coming from the shower. Anne shouted “Hurry up!” Sammie called back, laughing, “I suddenly feel like running, Anne. Maybe you should take off your clothes and come in here to hold me down. Why don’t you bring a bar of soap in for yourself while you’re at it?”
Anne threw a hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that yearned to raise from her mouth. She clenched her jaw tight and squinted her eyes hard. She whispered to herself “They’re food, not friends. Food, not friends.” She leaned her head back against the wall and whispered to herself “Come on, Anne. Don’t make the Mary Jenson mistake again.”
Anne closed her eyes and remembered Mary. Over Mary’s short stay at Bistro Viande, her and Anne had grown incredibly close. She had a hard time remembering, between Mary and herself, who cried harder when she eventually loaded Mary into the oven. But, the end result lay seared in Anne’s mind…
Anne had to live on knowing herself to be Mary’s killer.
Anne took a deep breath to force the growing emotions away. Anne whispered “Die inside. Live outside.” She closed her eyes and pictured herself dead until the waves of memories and emotions passed. She reopened her eyes once more…
She remembered who she was. A consummate professional fully capable of a job that required her to kill two people per week.
Her face returned to its normal cold stare.
What if you were destined to leave Earth and take your place as the rightful ruler of a planet in a galaxy far away?
Destiny knows no boundaries in this explosive, epic space adventure of honor and deceit, love and loss and high-stakes battles with vicious foes. Will Aric save his home planet's people, who wait in peril for the young king to return and claim the empty throne? Will Jade prove to his people that she's worthy to be their royal queen?
QUEEN OF CEREN is April M. Reign's third futuristic science fiction romance novel in the Human Alien Species Hybrid (HASH) series.
Stowaway to the Stars tells the story of Larry, an undercover agent for the Interstellar Exploration Programme, who stumbles on a covert operation by Zilon, a ruthless member of the Galactic Union. He finds himself framed by the Ziloni and a fugitive from the Union.
Karen is seeking the man responsible for the death of her sister. But one simple case of mistaken identity and a reckless decision suddenly sees her life in turmoil. She discovers that she is a stowaway on Larry’s spacecraft and her future is now irrevocably linked to his.
Larry’s future looks bleak. His only chance of finding evidence that will clear his name entails a near-suicidal invasion of a Ziloni military base. Karen has no choice but to accompany Larry on his mission, where she is thrown into the strange environment of the Union. Together they face the ultimate test as they battle with the collective might of the Ziloni and the Galactic Union.
Larry eased the thrust stick most of the way forward and the speed began to build. The arc of the Earth moved backward across the canopy, slowly at first but progressively faster until it was out of view, the cabin lights brightening to compensate for the loss of Earthlight. He trimmed the stick to maintain the thrust and settled back for the ride out to the hyperspace boundary.
A few minutes passed peacefully, then a voice behind him shattered the silence. ‘Hello, Grant. I bet you didn’t expect to meet me again.’
He leapt up and spun round. It was the girl from the bar, now sitting in his rear seat and pointing a gun at his head.
Her face was expressionless as her eyes bored into his. ‘I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Rachel. I know you’re responsible for what happened.’
Larry’s jaw sagged as he stared back at her, dumbfounded. How in the name of the seven saints had this strange girl managed to get aboard his ship, why was she mightily pissed off, and why did she seem to think his name was Grant? Before he could frame a suitable reply, a siren on the control console blared.
His world turned upside down for the second time. One glance at the viewscreen told him the worst. He had an incoming missile! And no guard missiles deployed. Shit, he was in deep trouble.
Larry made a rapid decision. A girl waving a pistol at his head or the absolute certainty of death in a couple of seconds from the missile - it wasn’t a contest. He spun back to the controls and located the red trace warning of the incoming missile approaching from the right. He’d have seen it seconds earlier but for the distraction of the damned girl.
‘Hey, arsehole, I’m not finished with you. Listen –’
How could this be happening to him? It was like a nightmare. And the stupid Earth girl who was distracting him hadn’t the faintest concept of what was going on. ‘Lady, shut up and let me concentrate, or you’ll get us both killed.’
He slammed the stick hard left and back. The ship’s gravity compensator had masked the earlier manoeuvring and bone-crunching thrust of the fifty gee drive out toward the hyperspace boundary. But it whined as it struggled to cope with the rapid changes of direction, and the slight lag made him clutch the top of the instrument panel to avoid being thrown about. He was vaguely aware of clattering behind him as the girl was thrown off balance by the same uncompensated forces.
The missile overshot, but a second red trace appeared on the display and an instant later the siren went off again. He slammed the stick the other way, bracing himself again. That missile passed by on the left, but even closer. The girl shouted something else. Forget about her, she probably wouldn’t kill him, but those damned missiles would if he didn’t get his defence missiles deployed fast.
Every night, Jade is rattled by a recurring dream—a dream that’s as real as the research institute where she lives. When flames fall from the sky and an alien ship crashes into Earth, Jade becomes government property and at the mercy of scientists. After all, she’s imprinted with an intelligent alien metal that could be the answer to all of Earth’s problems.
However, in the wrong hands, the metal implant could become the deadliest weapon known to humankind.
Kept underground for sixteen years, Jade fights to keep her sanity and understand the intelligent organism that is wrapped around her spine. When a new company takes over the science institute, Jade’s alien symbiont warns her of imminent danger.
Then Jade meets Aric, the lone survivor from the spaceship. They form an alliance that will change their personal destiny and they put a plan into motion that will alter the future of mankind.
Book One of THE IMPRINT TRILOGY.
The year is 2319. Lt. Comm Roy O’Hara leads his squadron against the enemy’s latest Super Destroyer and is shot down over an unexplored planet. The planet holds secrets to a long lost alien weapon and the key to Roy’s own destiny. Near death Roy is found by Katreena, a beautiful and mysterious woman. When she finds Roy, he’s broken and battered, and saves his life with the Boto Stone. She is unaware that by doing so she will create a deep bond and awaken an affect not seen for hundreds of years; the ability to communicate to each other in dreams. An unguarded moment leads to a forbidden night of intimacy; an act of betrayal to the crown, an act that will put both their lives in jeopardy. Katreena flees to save them both. Danger increases as their secret may be discovered and war erupts on their planet.
803 AD, ANGLO-SAXON ENGLAND
A cheer roared into the storm from those waiting on the jetty as the dark silhouette of a vessel appeared through the driving rain. The ship had a fierce black-painted carving of a bird high on the prow, and it went by the name of Raven. With a great swell running, it took skilful seamanship to manoeuvre the ship to the landing stage beneath a sky black enough for the end of the world.
A passenger who had changed his name to Eadmund Wigstaning was leaning over the gunwales. He was thickset, of tall stature, with black hair and a beard. Although his complexion was swarthy, there was a green pallor about him. Wigstaning clutched a leather bag under his arm to keep the top out of sight. It was an unusual bag for the time since its closure was by means of a zip fastener. The bag contained gold coins stolen from a Frisian trader, and during the theft, Wigstaning had narrowly escaped with his life.
Two brothers owned the first of a waiting line of wagons. Soaked to the skin and miserable they nudged their horse forward, hoping to pick up freight for transport to the middle shires. Wigstaning hailed them. In a few halting words, he explained that he had to get to Heanton in the Arden. They discussed money, and he showed them three gold coins, which sealed the bargain.
As they made their way along the track heading north below the overhanging trees of the Forest of Anderida the brothers whispered about their passenger. They had attempted to make conversation with him but lapsed into silence because of the lack of response. When Wigstaning did choose to speak they recognised only a few of his words, and he spoke them with a peculiar accent from the front of his mouth.
To the brothers the passenger was like the forest, quiet and menacing, but Wigstaning was going to pay them well so his moodiness was worth tolerating. During the whole journey, he gave them no reason to suspect that his real name was Theodore Uberatu, or that he had travelled much further than anyone who encountered him could possibly have imagined.
After lodging for the night, Wigstaning directed the brothers to take him onward to Heanton in the Arden, a village near his destination in the Kingdom of Mercia. Taking the north western route out of London, they made their way along the street called Watling, heading toward a track that would take them through the Forest of Arden.
As they neared Heanton, the sky showing through the canopy of leaves became black and threatening. The brothers thought it was odd how, with the onset of a fierce thunderstorm, the mood of the passenger lightened. He pointed to his destination in the distance, a hilly part of the forest known as Leofwin’s Hundred, where the House of the West Wind lay.
The brothers became nervous as they drew near to Leofwin's Hundred because of the superstition associated with it. They whipped their horse into a brisk trot as they guided the wagon along a track by Shadow Brook. The turgid water was almost overflowing its banks and carried debris with it from the forest. Uberatu stood unsteadily in the swaying wagon, flicked straw off his clothes and said some words the brothers found unintelligible. He laughed for no apparent reason, and out of habit he pulled up his sleeve and checked the time pulsing by on his digital watch.
Uberatu stepped down from the wagon and handed the brothers their payment. He pulled up a hood to shield himself from the driving rain and after crossing the stream on stepping-stones he headed off through the trees.
The brothers turned the wagon and urged the horse into a gallop. When they were approaching the wayside inn in Heanton where they intended to stop for the night they could see a bluish glow reflecting off the rain-soaked wall. They peered back through the rain in the direction of the House of the West Wind and saw vague blue lines of light rising into the darkening sky.
There was fierce lightning that night and thunder echoed over the forest. Seven people in Heanton in the Arden claimed to have seen the blue lines rising into the sky that they said were similar to lightning, but rather than a jagged downward flash, the lines curved gracefully up into the heavens from the depths of the forest. When they told the innkeeper what they had seen, word spread quickly. The priest, grasping a holy relic and glancing nervously into the forest, lost no time in going to see them.
The centuries passed. Leofwin's Hundred remained a place of superstition and a haunt of wild creatures. Only a few individuals who had the extra courage and an enquiring mind went to the House of the West Wind, and sometimes whilst there, they caught sight of beings who looked only vaguely human . . . .
Traffic was thick even this early in the day. A line of cars snaked down San Marcos Pass as impatient drivers frequently passed four or five cars at a time in a vain effort to gain a few minutes over the rest.
Suddenly I felt a hard jolt as a car rammed my truck from the rear. My pulse raced. All I could see was a blur of white in my mirror before he hit me again. I heard Zorro barking in the camper and wondered how soon we could get off this horrible road.
Anger replaced fear as I saw the white car fall back and then gain speed for another onslaught. I remembered watching stunt drivers play out this scene in movies. Mike always said the driver should slam on the brakes and let the ramming car take the brunt of the crash—like cars in a demolition derby. He claimed the rear end of a car could absorb more abuse than the front end.
I braced myself and jammed the brake pedal to the floor. The crunching jolt was almost satisfying, but my head whipped back into the headrest. My neck felt sore. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the white hood looked crumpled and black smoke poured from the engine.
I stomped on the gas and gained distance while fumbling in my purse for my cell phone. I really needed to clean out the junk in that mammoth purse! Flipping open the lid, I saw a blank screen and a “searching for signal” message. I threw the useless instrument back into the black hole of my purse and glanced into the rear view mirror.
A knot formed in my stomach as Zorro barked in the camper.
The white car crept closer, like a tiger stalking its prey. Suddenly the car veered sharply into the passing lane, and I realized he planned to push me over the edge by hitting me from the side. I slammed on the brakes again hard, skidding to a stop as the white car shot past. He barely missed an oncoming car and veered back into our lane before screeching to a halt ahead of me.
Sewer-rat children screamed obscenities at one another and laughed. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed. Late-afternoon faces gloated down at the spectacle and faded from my view. I felt her claw my hand and heard her weep. I never did learn her name. My breath whistled through red-stained nostrils. Warm blood lazily oozed out of holes somewhere in my chest. Useless arms and legs lazily stretched out to enjoy the last of the sidewalk’s heat. Death straddled me and hummed a playful tune. I half closed my eyes and smiled back. Everything was going to be OK.
■ ■ ■
Even in a Sarjeta (the Gutter), there is always somebody lower than you.
If you’re faster or stronger, someone else pays a price. Could be money. Or favors. Could be that someone weaker pays the ultimate price: his or her life. I’m better than most people stuck here because I dream big. And dreams will show me how to escape this shithole.
The wind scattered dirt and grit, biting my face and the window’s ledge that faced out at Canto do Diabo (Devil’s Corner). The streets of the Gutter dead-ended here, where wall graffiti and littered garbage stopped and the Prodigal Son resided. I was lucky to be this close to the charity’s main building.
Lank curtains hid the waiting room. Several coffee-colored men, coughing up throaty words and inhaling Turkish cigarettes, stood outside by a front door painted red, the dark color of worried eyes. One of them looked at me as I approached. I tried not to fidget with the waxy pouch in my hand. He signaled something, and I was quickly surrounded by four pairs of uncertain eyes.
“Você fala inglês?” the one man said. He grinned, and I spotted gold bordering three missing teeth.
“Yes, sure,” I said.
His greasy thumb gestured at the other three. “These clowns don’t. So you talk to me, OK?” His accent wasn’t Portuguese. Or English.
“Sure,” I said.
I glanced at his face, spotting a tattooed circle on his left cheek. Despite his smile, I sensed something darker hiding behind the mask he now wore.
“A delivery. For him.” I placed the pouch into the gold-toothed man’s hand. My fingers touched his slimy palm, causing me to shiver for a moment.
“Come back next week.”
“What about my money?” I asked.
“Next week. You’ll get another package and your money.”
All four men stared at me. I couldn’t read their alien faces. The tattooed guy jabbed his finger at me.
“You know, I see something in you. Maybe something great, huh?”
I didn’t ask what he saw and quickly left. I decided that Devil’s Corner was not a part of the Gutter where I wanted to be alone after sunset.
■ ■ ■
I stood on Amélia’s concrete balcony and gagged. Inside her apartment, sickly sweet beans, dumped out of dented cans, cooked on a hotplate. Two half-naked children with swollen bellies rubbed messy fingers on my sister’s worn-down apron as they cried for dinner. They didn’t know anything else. This was the same meal served at breakfast. At yesterday’s dinner. And the day before. But I’ve walked by the açougue (butcher shop) and seen real meat. I’ve smelled the bloody flesh. Steak and hamburger and food that people with money could buy. I don’t want to eat beans anymore.
Scraps of faded sunlight crawled down the balcony rails, exposing lag bolts desperately grabbing at the block wall. It was a miracle I didn’t fall into the darkened alley below. I could see someone down there licking at the emptied tins we’d thrown out with the rest of the garbage. I shouted at him to get some self-respect, but he just laughed. I kept shouting.
Amélia looked out at me with worried, dark eyes. “You don’t know that man out there. You don’t know what he could do to us. Come back inside.” Both children clung quietly to her, sensing their mother’s fear. My sister tightly gripped the plastic spoon she used to stir the beans. Her eyes pleaded, seeming to say, “At least we eat.”
“I don’t need to be afraid. I don’t need this shit,” I said.
“Please, the children.”
“I’ll be a famous artist. I’ll escape. And you’ll be forgotten.”
Amélia started to cry. I stormed back to my room and locked the door. An hour later, I ignored her knock when she came to ask if I was hungry. Sleep came soon, and I dreamed that the man in the alley chased me. Then my dreams went black, and I tossed and turned the rest of the night.
■ ■ ■
I didn’t know his real name, so I called him Ben. He didn’t mind. Ben dropped my money and this week’s package onto my sister’s flimsy coffee table. I tried to figure him out. I guessed that he was about ten, only two years younger than me. I asked him where he lived.
He didn’t answer my questions. Ben just looked nervously around.
How does someone so young become a collector?
“You alone?” Ben asked.
“My sister is sewing today. She takes the babies.”
Ben wiped his nose. “That’s good. I guess I’ll come back next week at the same time.”
I pointed at the waxy paper. “What’s inside?”
“Don’t ask. And don’t steal anything.”
He looked down at my drawing pad. I had been sketching from memory a park I once saw in the middle of Avenida da Liberdade. His wide eyes studied every penciled line, every cross-hatched tree as if it were the fucking Mona Lisa or something. Ben held his breath, and for a moment he seemed to have transported himself somewhere a million miles away from the Gutter. I bet he had never seen the avenue or anything else like it.
“I take art classes. The church gives them for free,” I said.
“I couldn’t do that.”
“How do you know? Have you tried?”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“I’ll take you. Come back tomorrow.”
Ben looked over the pad once more. He blinked his eyes and swallowed hard. “Don’t steal anything,” he said. And he left without saying good-bye.
Banan clamped her hands over her mouth to forcibly hold her silence lest she draw the Americans to them with her screams. She re-steadied herself back to her feet and turned to Sammie. Sammie hoarsely mouthed to her “are you ok?”
Banan nodded lightly. She removed her hands from her mouth and surveyed the room. A scream rose in her throat at the shear carnage which surrounded them. Up close, it felt infinitely more real than it did from the ceiling above. Sammie could see the scream rising in Banan’s throat and so she leapt out from her hiding spot and clamped her hands around Banan’s mouth. She whispered in Banan’s ear “Shhhh…. If you scream, the Americans will kill us both.” Banan swallowed down her terror and Sammie released her grip. Sammie frowned as she surveyed the carnage. Dozens of dead bodies, lay piled about the room but Sammie could not see Megan readily. Sammie said “We have to find them. I’m sure you’re worried about Scarlet, Steve, and Jerry. It looks like a lot of people from the dance floor tried hiding in here. There may still be hope. Maybe one of them played dead to trick the Americans and is hiding underneath the bodies.”
Silently, they both began the grisly task of sifting through the bodies. Sammie recognized several people from the bar as well as some of some of ‘Snow White’s’ dwarves. She heard Banan whisper sadly “Scarlett.” Sammie turned to look. Banan held on to Scarlett’s arm as it protruded out from underneath the dead body of the bartender. Banan grabbed hold of Scarlett’s wrist for a second and then turned to Sammie and shook her head sadly. Sammie nodded and said “We’ll keep looking.”
As they dug through, a slight coughing sound came from the back. Sammie sprinted to it and pulled away some bodies revealing Steve. He grimaced and coughed up some blood as he labored to breath. Sammie knelt down saying “Steve, Steve…” He looked up into her eyes and gasped. He said “They …” A fit of coughs stopped him. Sammie looked down across his body. Large punctures pierced almost every part of him. Banan ran up alongside her and knelt next to him as well. Sammie surveyed the room for something, anything they could use to plug his wounds even though a part of her knew it was already too late for that. The spreading puddle of blood flowing from behind Steve told her that the exit wounds were much larger than the small punctures that covered his front. Steve hoarsely whispered “They took…” Sammie knelt close and asked “Took who?” Steve drew in a deep breath. The blood gurgling from his chest bubbled as he said “Took… Megan…” Banan asked “You mean they killed her?” Steve shook his head. His head slumped for a while and he closed his eyes. Sammie almost began to stand back up when he said “No… they drag Megan away… then kill everyone. They take her… on purpose.”
Sammie’s blood froze in her veins. She asked “Why?” Steve shuddered and looked up at her. He grasped her arm and replied, as if giving some dire warning, “Bistro!” With that said, his grip released. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over silently. The pool of blood spreading from beneath him began to cool as the last whispers of life escaped his body. Both women stood there, blood-soaked and shivering in shock and terror. Sammie’s mind felt as though it moved through water as the world around her spun slowly. It seemed as if everything began to tunnel in on Steve’s lifeless face. Scarcely a few minutes prior, he had been the first guy to buy her a drink at a bar and now he was dead. Megan was the first woman to show Sammie any form of kindness, well somewhat kindness in a drunken-party sense of the word, and now she had been kidnapped by Americans. All of the conflicting emotions boiled back and forth within Sammie but none over whelmed the burning question which exploded in her mind above all the rest…
“Why did the American’s take Megan alive?”
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Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) by Terry W. Ervin II Narrator: James Conlan Series: Crax War Chronicles #1 Published by Gryphonwood Press on 03-03-14 Genres: