Teaser from SA: The Calling

Here's just a bit of what I've been working on when I'm not on the far side of the Universe trying to finalize the second book in the Dremiks series.  This will be a historical and urban fantasy series. How can it be both?  You'll just have to wait and find out.
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It was the same nightmare. Johanna recognized that fact even as her limbs twisted in sweat soaked sheets.  Small cries of distress slipped from her dry lips. Her eyes moved erratically behind closed lids. Being able to anticipate the unfolding horror didn’t make it any easier.

She saw Sam flinch. His dark eyes turned to her, as they always did, not understanding what was happening—not understanding why he held his guts in his hands. The room exploded in flame.  Sam was still screaming, but softer now, his brain and heart losing the battle for survival. The killer turned to her. He was laughing, had been laughing since they’d broken down his door.  The survivalist cabin reeked of blood and offal. A spark jumped from an overhead beam. It landed in the pale man’s hair, setting it alight.  His laugh rose in pitch.

She shot him, once, twice, three more times. His burning clothing swirled like a cape. He raised his arm, fell upon her and carried them both to the floor. Embers dropped from his arms as they descended in flaming arcs, stabbing her. When it had actually happened she’d only felt the first three punctures of the blade into her chest. In the nightmare she felt all twenty seven.

He stopped, leaned over and kissed her forehead. Lips like branding irons seared her skin. “Be seeing you, Nota.”

Then he was gone, the ceiling beam collapsed on Sam’s body, and she jerked awake, screaming.

Stop Feeding The Trolls

By now you will have heard a least a snippet of the news regarding @AshleyJudd recieving threats and obscene comments after she expressed her opinion about the UK vs Arkansas game Sunday afternoon. If you are a woman who has ever loved something society has deemed to be the realm of men, you can identify with the hurt and frustration she must be feeling.  If you've dared to express an opinion about one of these topics, you've experienced the hateful comments yourself.

I make no excuses for my brash and sarcastic attitude.  I am a redhead. I am a Southerner.  I love University of Kentucky basketball and football. I write science fiction and fantasy.  I am a gamer.  None of those loves, hobbies, or beliefs is less or more valid because I have two x chromosomes. And, yet, for all of my life I've been told what a girl can and cannot do, what a woman should not say, how a lady should dress and act. I've been warned that expressing myself could be dangerous.

My response has been and will ever be: Come Get Some.

I play MMOs (Massive Multiplayer Online games).  I played them when they were MMORPGs (Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games) and before that I played MUDs (Multiple User Dungeons).  From the first day I logged on with a "female" name I learned that the internet gaming culture treats women differently. "Phat loot for cyber-ing" was a constant refrain. I'm very good at playing certain roles in games. I'm also an outspoken advocate for my friends (guildies in MMO parlance) and a natural leader.  While I was just another member of the raid the innuendos and snide comments were very occasional and low key. Then I started leading raids. I started being the person who shouted battle commands, made tactical decisions, and proposed strategy. That is when the sexual insults and real threats of violence began.

The game I play now has on-line fantasy combat. If you've seen the Lord of The Rings: The Two Towers movie, imagine the Battle of Helms Deep played out on a computer screen. It's a lot like that, only death is just a temporary set-back and we never get to actually toss a dwarf. I still like to lead large battles like this. Because I am what has been politely termed a "serial contrarian", I choose to play a character and class that many feel is not best suited for the role.  It works for me and it works for my friends, but people doing things differently is just as reviled in the online world as it is out here in the real world.  I've been called "catty", a "cancerous bitch", a "fat old c-nt" and many other names. These persons never give specific examples of why I shouldn't be leading, they immediately launch into personal attacks.  While discussing this with a friend recently, I lamented that people just can't see that there are multiple avenues to successful raiding.  The friend replied, "They aren't attacking you because you play that class. They are attacking you because you're a woman who dares to be good at a game."  I instinctively dismissed the idea. These are guys who have played with, or near, me for years. They are reasonably educated individuals raised in Western Society.  Then the friend pointed out multiple examples of male commanders who led raids with "alternate classes" and were never criticized, much less bombarded with abuse.

I challenge you to find a female gamer who doesn't have a similar story.  Even in our educated, enlightened society, there are still activities deemed to be gender specific. The same situations occur for female sports fans, female car enthusiasts, female soldiers, and female politicians.

Many have suggested that Ashley Judd, and others who have complained about on-line harassment, just need to "get thicker skins". It has also been said that the emotionally stunted individuals who made the disgusting comments about her are not breaking any laws. It is quite probably that they are indeed not stepping outside the law. They are however, stepping outside the bounds of societal interaction. If they have decided not to participate as adults in our society, we should reciprocate by ceasing all interaction. Those saying that Ms. Judd should "just get over it" are enabling further juvenile outbursts. People may have the legally protected right to be internet trolls, but we don't have to feed the trolls.

We should, instead, be rooting out the trolls with pitchforks and flaming torches.  We should be yanking them from their anonymous bolt holes and exposing them to the harsh light of societal scorn. It is not OK to respond to an opinion or argument with any version of "well you're retarded/fat/a woman/homosexual". Responding to Ashley Judd's tweet with sexual innuendo, threats of rape, or comments about "getting back in the kitchen" is barbaric in the truest sense of the word.  Those persons chose to make themselves outcasts from polite society.  It's time we stopped treating these situations as trivial.

So, kudos to fellow UK alumnus Ashley Judd for responding to the slobbering idjits on Twitter with her own version of "Come Get Some". I've got her back, and so should you.

A Continuing Theme On...

...the terrifying nature of alien medicine.

Here's a quick snippet from my next book:

“We don’t have a doc on station. Well, not a human one, and trust me, you don’t want a Kigvan doctor. Dremikians might be ok, but, no, you probably don’t want to deal with them either. They have funny opinions about exploratory surgery.”

“Uh…I just have a headache.”

 “Exactly."

To My Eldest Son

Dear E:

I know you’re mad at me right now. You are convinced that your life is miserably unfair because I ask you to help take care of your younger brother. Why should you have to make his cereal, or help him tie his shoes, or patiently answer his incessant questions? It’s not like he ever does those things for you!

Here’s a tip: it’s only going to get worse. In a few short (too short, if you ask me) years you’ll be asked to drive your younger brother to soccer practice, pick him up from school, and help him navigate the corridors of high school. You’ll be a senior by then, full of self-importance and a wealth of 18 year old knowledge. He’ll be the pimply little snot that you won’t want to be seen with. How is it fair that you’ll have to do so much for him and he’ll never have to do the same for you?

But you see, son, life isn’t an equal exchange of goods and services. Your little brother might never have to drive you to practice or show you around school. But, he will always look up to you. When he and his friends are sitting around trading stories of daring-do, every stunt you ever pulled will be gleefully retold. He will spend his life trying to “do it better than he did” or “not screw that up as badly as HE did”. You are, and always will be, a standard he sets his life by.

You know what’s more unfair than having to take care of your younger brother? Not having a little brother. There are some people who never have to protect a sibling from bullies. They never get a chance to teach someone how to shoot hoops or evade Mom’s watchful presence. Worse, they don’t have a built-in fan club.

Sadly, there are also people in this world who had little brothers and then lost them. I’m one of those. Your uncle and I fought incessantly and I uttered the same complaints you’re now throwing at me. Still, I miss him so much it physically hurts. We’ll never get to tease each other again. We’ll never again get to share a laugh about that one time we used kudzu vines to swing like Robin Hood from the trees. (Don’t you dare try that, young man!) Much as I hated having to send my little brother money for a car payment, or bail, I’d do it again in a heart-beat if only I had a chance.

As bad as the constant, clinging, presence of your brother might seem right now, it is far better than the alternative. There might come a day when he stops talking to you. He might no longer feel like he can share his hurts or his cares. He might forget that he is not alone in this world. One, horrible, day he might take that childhood taunt, “Leave me alone!”, and make it reality. That will be the worst day of your life.

So, my grumpy eldest child, try not to be too sad that part of your life is spent taking care of your little brother. The love he gives you in return is the greatest return on investment you’ll ever get. Sibling-hood may seem unfair now, but, trust me: You’re one of the lucky ones.

-Love,
Mom

Again with This?

Tasha Robinson, at The Disolve, writes that "We're losing all our Strong Female Characters to Trinity Syndrome". It's a well thought-out piece and well worth the read. Near the end of the article, Robinson proposes a litmus test for female characters, which really got my brain churning.

I've written on this topic before.  If all goes well, I'll be discussing it on a panel at Geek Girl Con this October. While I could, easily, answer "no" to all of Robinson's questions, does that matter? Is the goal to write a charachter who fulfills every single aspect of that perfect formula?

No.


I don't write Strong Female Characters.  I write PEOPLE.  Male or female, they have faults and quirks and serious psychological issues. (Maggie O'Connell is famously described BY HER BEST FRIEND as "emotionally stunted"!)

The problem , as I see it, is that authors (of screenplays and novels alike) set out to write a "Strong Female Character" like generations of old set out to write a "Damsel in Distress".  Just because your character can kick a little ass doesn't mean she's not a flat, lifeless, cliche added to your story as a sop to a particular demographic.

My advice: STOP IT.  Make your characters reflect reality. Write REAL women. The viewing--and reading-- public will thank you.

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day:

• To the Sarah Conner type moms
• To the mothers of dragons, wolves, felines, and velociraptors
• To Moira Queens of the world
• To the mothers of Sheldons and Sherlocks everywhere
• To Beverly Crushers and the Athenas
• To the mother's who not yet are 
• And to the mothers who are only so in their tear-soaked dreams

Giving birth is only one of the on-ramps to the journey that is motherhood.

No matter how you got on this road we share, welcome and safe travels.

Editors Are Friends, Not Food

I recently posted a bit of flash fiction. I wrote that story for Lightspeed Magazine’s “Women Destroy Science Fiction” issue, due out this summer. They decided they weren’t interested, so I was free to publish it here. That is often the case with self-publishing: stories are rejected (for myriad reasons that don’t always involve the quality of the writing) but authors decide they really want their work to be read. I’m a huge proponent of self-publishing. I’m a bigger supporter, though, of self-publishing authors using editors.

I learned the hard way that no matter how many pairs of eyes read through your manuscript, mistakes slip through. This happens to all published works. Yes, mistakes happen even to the big boys. The goal with editors, though, is to limit the number of mistakes and improve the reading experience. When you sign a book deal with a major publisher, part of their cut of your royalties goes to pay for editors and proofreaders. When you are self-publishing, you need to spend this money up-front in order to realize the full potential of your book. Because, again, no matter how wonderful a writer you are, mistakes happen.

Just as self-publishers and small publishing houses have sprouted like mushrooms across a Seattle lawn, so too have small “mom and pop” businesses catering to these authors. Editors, proofreaders, cover artists, e-book formatters, even reviewers, offer their services to the mass of writers. I’ve been fortunate to meet many of these fine folk since my book launched in March of 2012. The editing group I’m writing about today, though, is headed by two people I’ve known for years. In this business, like in so many others, who you know is just as important as what you know.

I met Ed and Natalie Warneke through on-line gaming. After Dremiks was published, Ed came to me with several errors he’d found. I was properly mortified but also impressed by his thoroughness and professional demeanor. When Natalie approached me months later asking if I knew of anyone who’d be interested in paying for editing services, my answer was a resounding “YES”! After consulting current industry price points for both editing and proofreading (yes, there is a difference), crafting a website, and spending many hours networking on-line, the Warnekes launched Warneke Reading.

I could spend the next several paragraphs summarizing their website. However, as any good editor will tell you, it is better to show than to tell. Here, then, is an example of the edits made to my flash-fiction entitled “NBRUs”.






The Warnekes do more than just check for proper comma placement and count the number of spaces between sentences. They offer stylistic changes and are brutally honest when a passage makes absolutely no sense. Further down in the manuscript ( not pictured) they make this comment:

This sentence is confusing. In the beginning you make it sound as if none of the crew know the captain has been injured. If so, then how would this first officer know about the repair bot? Maybe you mean after the fact? Like the first officer might tear it apart after he found out it injured the captain? If so, this hasn’t happened yet.

Any writer will tell you that there are times when a sentence makes perfect sense in his or her head, but sounds like alien gibberish when written down. The Warnekes, and all good editors, catch those instances and bring them to your attention.

Another example of stylistic advice:

I know you don’t have the word space to explain this, but how come the first batch of bots had to be removed via syringe but the second just degrade?

While I absolutely fixed every single punctuation error that they caught, I picked which stylistic changes worked for the mood and purpose of my piece. This was a (very) short story that did not require much effort or consultation—but I know from experience that the Warnekes are willing to trade emails late into the night to explain their edits and suggestions. This was a professional editing job offered at a price well within a self-published author’s budget. Self-published authors absolutely must consult an editor, but there are financial limitations involved with that relationship. I’m happy to report that authors can find thorough, polite, informative, and knowledgeable editors at a price that won’t require a Kickstarter to cover fees.

We authors are very protective of our work. Our characters are our life-long friends and our plot points are absolutely, 100%, always necessary. Except… they aren’t. We don’t need editors governed by the price to print each word and thus ruthlessly chewing-up our prose with their red pens. On the flip side, we don’t need to be predators willing to maul anyone who dares to make a suggestion. This professional relationship only works when there is mutual acceptance of our roles. We cannot be sharks and clown fish and expect to produce a masterpiece. (That only works for Pixar.)

You can read more about the Warneke’s services on their website and connect with them on Facebook and Twitter.


No promotional consideration was given for this post.

NBRUs

A wee bit of flash fiction from the DREMIKS universe.

NBRUs

Human bodies are fragile things. I should know; I’ve been shot. Given that fragility, the dearth of human doctors in deep space has precipitated rapid advances in medical technology. We’ve developed ways for regular folks to treat all but the most grievous of injuries. In my med kit, I’ve got a little handheld unit for skin patches and grafts on superficial wounds. Those won’t be a damn bit of help for the 5-inch gash in my bicep. It requires internal muscle and blood vessel repair. For such invasive tasks the best minds in medicine have provided NBRUs (Nanomite Biological Repair Units for the blissfully unaware).

However useful these little wonders of modern tech are, their use isn’t something to contemplate lightly.  The nanomites were developed using Kigvan technology, and Kigvans, our alien allies, have no concept of pain. They find human pain responses to be endlessly fascinating but ultimately inconsequential to treatment. To break open a kit of NBRUs takes a dire need or a dangerous level of masochism. I’ve often been accused of the latter, but a 15-centimeter wide, titanium, bolt putting a hole where I didn’t need one definitely qualifies as “dire need”.

First step when using NBRUs is setting my bio-med chip to monitor blood pressure and cardiac rhythms. I also find it necessary to use the crew member alert function.  It’s generally a good idea for the crew to know when their captain passes out on the floor. Despite the fact there’s a pool of blood forming at my feet, I can’t pull any crew members off their tasks.  The engine has to be fixed or we all die a cold and lonely death. Honestly, if my Kigvan first officer, Karzak, was here he’d spend half the time reminding me how he recommended against using the engine repair robot that shot this bolt at me.

There are now several different pain sensations occurring simultaneously within my body. Severed nerves around the tear cause a dull ache. The deeper tissue wound feels like I’ve poured bourbon into it. Then there’s the roiling nausea of anticipation of how much more this will hurt once I actually start fixing it. Admittedly, some of the nausea might be due to blood loss.

I have to attach the migratory collar above the wound. NBRUs travel through the human body quicker than a heartbeat. Unfortunately for the human whose body is being repaired, the little devils don’t always stay where the wound is. They like to travel and “fix” other areas of the body. As I don’t really have time for a frontal lobotomy today, I’ll use the collar. It closes around my arm with a metallic snick and adjusts until it’s tight. I should point out that the collar prevents the NBRUs from traveling by zapping them with a targeted bolt of electricity.  Basically, it’s shocking me every half second. Now I’m twitching and flicking blood in an interesting arc across the floor.

The NBRU kit includes several metal cylinders the length of my index finger, a spray canister, and several syringes of fluid. There’s also an instructional hologram that auto-plays upon opening, but I close that immediately. The overly cheerful med-tech’s instructions would induce more rage than is healthy for my current cardiac state. I grab a vial marked Hemo-bot, twist off the cap with my good hand, and pour the contents into my wound. The NBRUs are too miniscule to see, of course, but they are transported into my body via a saline solution.

A bit of the solution splashes up near the collar. That produces a more powerful shock and elicits several choice words about the parentage of medical device manufacturers. Blood vessel repairs take a few minutes, so I flop into a chair to wait it out. My bio-chip chirps as my blood pressure improves. I try not to think about the microscopic little robots swirling through my bloodstream. They’re designed to travel through veins, arteries and capillaries, repairing tears and cleaning out foreign particles. Unfortunately, they won’t break down for natural reabsorption.  I have to extract the bots to avoid causing a deadly clot.

When my blood pressure readout and a quick pass of a scanner over my wound indicates that the bleeding has stopped, I grab a syringe from the kit. It’s labeled Hemo-bot Removal. Right above it is nestled a small metal disk.  I fumble that twice--my hands are slippery from the saline solution and my own blood--before slapping it against the back of my hand. I’ve been told many times, with lots of condescension, that the removal system is not a magnet. I’m sure the instructional video tells me how the little disk works to draw all the hemo-bots to one section of my arm so that I can extract them, but “it’s a special kind of magnet” works for me. Gritting my teeth, I wait for a lump to form under the metal disk. Once all of the bots are clumped up in one area, I jab the syringe in and pull them out.

I’m no longer in danger of bleeding out all over my stateroom, but the pain continues to intensify and I can still see torn bits of muscle and flesh inside the open wound. Oh, and the damn collar is still shocking the crap out of my arm at regular intervals. That’s actually serving a dual purpose now, as the constant low-level electrocution keeps me from passing out. I have to stay awake just a few more minutes.

Step two of open wound treatment involves another vial of NBRUs. This container is marked Tissue Repair. Apparently “Flesh Bots” had improper connotations. The conveying solution for these bots is gelatinous.  It oozes out of the vial and seeps into the jagged edges of my wound. The appearance of the gel is the least disturbing aspect of these bots. All of the accompanying information repeatedly assures users of NBRUs that they are too miniscule to feel as they crawl through the body. That’s utter bullshit.

Previously dulled nerves reignite in searing waves of agony the length of my arm. Bile rises far enough in my throat to make me gag. A trillion microscopic fire ants have just taken up residence in my body, and they are making a new home out of my tattered muscle fiber. I bite down so hard on my lip that blood seeps across my teeth and tongue. The small monitoring chip in my wrist chimes a warning about my heart rate. I can’t focus the energy to turn it off.

As distracting as the waves of pain are, I am not immune to the disquieting sight of my wound stitching itself back together. After just a minute, I can no longer see into the gash. At the two minute and thirty second mark, there is only an angry red zigzag where the open wound once was. These NBRUs, their job completed, will degrade into simple salts and water over the next twenty-four hours.

Wrung out, shaking, and nauseated, I weakly push the red button on the metal device still encircling my arm.  One final shriek inducing shock travels down my arm. I can only hope that all the bots are disabled, because there’s no way in hell I’m repeating that step. The collar detaches with a soft click and clatters onto the floor. Before I join the discarded devices, vials, and gauze down there on the floor, I inject antibiotics and painkillers into my uninjured arm. The wound still needs a skin graft ointment, but I just don’t have the willpower.

I actually manage to stumble to my bunk. Right before my tunneling vision blacks out entirely, I spare a final curse for robots of all sizes.  Human beings might be fragile things, but we’re resilient too. That’s a fact I intend to demonstrate to a certain engine repair bot, just as soon as I’m conscious again.

World Cancer Day

My family has been lucky, we've not lost anyone to cancer for the past decade. My great aunt has beaten breast cancer.  My paternal grandmother's melanoma never resurfaced. Last year my mother (breast) and I (ovarian) both had cancer scares but all tests came back 100% negative for malignancy.  We've never had an instance of pediatric cancer in our family.

Many families are not so blessed. Below is a post about my angel, written in 2006. In memory of Andy and all of the little boys and girls taken far too soon, any proceeds I make from book sales today will go to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.

If you are blessed, like my family is, please remember all those who aren't.  If your life has been touched by cancer, know that you are in our prayers.



Andy

I believe in Angels. My angel's name is Andy.

Andy was a fighter with a smile that his mother says lit up the world. He fought off cancer and brought hope to his family. He was the best big brother in the world. In an inexplicable twist of fate and pain, he was taken from his mother's arms by the remnants of the disease he had beaten so long ago.

Andy's mother is my friend. Her strength and bravery are a daily inspiration. She is a true lady.

Not long after Andy left us to be with Jesus, I lost my unborn child. I was devastated and scared and withdrew into a haze of self-pity and grief. One afternoon I had a dream that a beautiful red headed little boy stood beside my bed. He stroked my cheek and smiled. I knew in the way that you know things in dreams that this little boy was Andy. He smiled and said, "Don't cry. I'll watch over your baby. He's safe with me now."

Bless you Andy, for all your were on Earth, and all you are in Heaven.

The Long Watch

In my family, the legacy of service in arms stretches back through the ages. There is not a single generation that has not produced a veteran.  In my family, every day is Veteran's Day. For, every day we give thanks for those returned to us and remember those left upon a bloody field.

To the Veteran:

Where-ever you may be this night, look up to the stars and know that every foot-soldier, longbowman, cavalry scout, sailor, gunner, doughboy, airmen, WAC volunteer, and minuteman stands with you.  Shoulder to shoulder across the heavens, they guard against the eternal dark.

When your watch is done, they will welcome you to the Halls of Valhalla to take your place among the honored.

When your brave deeds and constant service are nothing but legends upon the Earth, the light of a million heavenly bivouac fires shall be your immortal remembrance.

Short: "Flu-like illness"

When an old high-school friend mentioned, on Facebook, that he and his wife were stuck in Emergency Room limbo, I offered to write a short story to distract them. No one can sleep in ER's, as I well know, and, despite having already been there for 6 hours, there was no end in sight to their stay. This short story, more of a snippet really, popped into my head and demanded to be told.

Readers of "Dremiks" will recognize Doctors Fortunas and Ruger.  The child mentioned here is their adopted daughter: Virginia Dare Hill.

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"Flu-like Illness"

“It is biologically impossible for you to have influenza.”

Dr. Ben Fortunas, stretched out prone on the metal examining table, rolled his head to the side. “I said influenza-like.”

“Far be it for me to criticize the all-knowing biologist, but even an “influenza-like” infection is biologically unlikely.” Dr. Ruger pulled on a pair of examination gloves before approaching her patient.

“But not impossible.”  He sniffed.  “Irritants to the mucosae abound on this infernal planet, so I can readily dismiss the proverbial runny nose. You will note, however, that my core temperature has risen several degrees in the past twenty four hours. Rheumatoid swelling would account for my aching joints and eye-strain induced headache.”

“Yes, but so would advancing age.”  The petite female doctor laughed as the old man on her table glared in outrage.  “Be still.  Let’s check your vitals.”  She made small sounds of assent as the readouts from Fortunas’s bio-chip scrolled on her tablet.  After reviewing the data, she began her physical examination.  She moved his knees and elbows, checked his reflexes, and examined his eyes.  By the time she inserted a swab a considerable distance up the senior science officer’s nose, he’d exhausted his patience.

“Damn it woman, there are less invasive ways of taking a sample!”

“Stop being such a baby.”  She dropped the swab into the processor.  Her tiny foot tapped a steady beat as she waited for the results.  “Don’t forget to bring home the apples for dinner,” she commented in a distracted tone of voice.

“I’m putting you and that pernicious parasite on a reduced apple regimen.  You’ll exhaust my stores, again.”

“That’s no way to refer to our daughter.”

“Which nomenclature do you dispute, her parasitic status or the increasingly pernicious aspect of said parasitism?”

“Both.”

“Medical doctors,” he snorted.  “So blithely imprecise.”

“Ha!”

“Eh?”

“You do not have a flu-like viral infection.”

“Obviously, since my body has been inoculated to prevent viral receptivity. Wait,” his bushy white eyebrows inched towards his even bushier hairline.  “Why do you sound so giddy?  What do I have?”

“A parasitic infection of uniquely Dremikian origin.  It appears to be a type of dust mite.”  She jabbed an auto-syringe at his arm, not gently.  “The infection should be resolved in twenty four hours.”

He pulled himself upright with a groan.  “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome.  I’ll see you at home.”

He leaned over to kiss her on his way out the door of the medical hut, but she shied away.

“Eww, get away.” She shooed him with her hands. “I don’t want your flu!”

Review: "Hero's End" by JC Cassels

"Hero's End" is the second book in JC Cassels' "Blackwing Chronicles."  For my review of the first book, "Sovran's Pawn", please go here. Cassels can be followed on Facebook and Twitter.

Over-all rating: 4 stars

"Hero's End" is a better book, both stylistically and story-wise, than "Sovran's Pawn".  The characters are alive with rich background details. Scenery is described in dramatic fashion but not to the point that a reader becomes bored with every descriptive nuance.  The story is well paced with a good blend of action and exposition. If you love the lush settings, blood-curdling action, and cliffhangers of George RR Martin's "Game of Thrones" series, you will like this book.

Plot (no spoilers): 4stars

Blade Devon and Bo Barron are back to save the galaxy each other.  While there are certainly over-arcing political plotlines within "Hero's End", this is the story of Blade and Bo.  As the second in a series, the book does a good job of treading the fine line between re-telling the first book and plunging the reader into the action with no point of reference.  The first three chapters are a bit slower paced than the rest of the book, but still manage to draw you in.

This series of books is good, classic, space opera.  The plot is character driven and centered around the romance of the two protagonists. Don't be misled, though.  This is not a sappy romance novel set in space. Cassels has created an entire galaxy full of competing star systems, power-plays, holo-feature starlets, and mystical wisemen.

There's more mysticism in this story than in the prior book.  I always have to give myself a good mental shake when there's talk of telepathy.  Yes mind reading is all very sci-fi, but the book does take place on spaceships and alien planets.

Formatting: 3 stars

I'm still an ebook snob, so I'm not going to over-look the lack of a working Table of Contents or chapter hyperlinks.

Final thoughts:

I stayed up until 4am to finish "Hero's End". Be warned, it ends in a cliffhanger that is so wrenching as to make me curse aloud.  Fans of space opera will not want to miss this book.

Space Station Grub

I thought it was about time y'all got to read what I've been working on.  Here's a snippet of the up-coming sequel to Dremiks.  Hope you enjoy; feedback is appreciated.

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“This is the canteen.”  John opened a very human looking door and stepped over the slight rise of the frame.

Lilly took in the dark paneled walls, the dim lighting, close packed chairs, and general cozy feel of the place.  “Looks more like a pub to me.”

He seemed to consider this while leading her to the bar.  “I suppose that’s a better definition. I’m still getting used to eating in a room not called a “mess”, though.” He nodded to the attractive human woman behind the bar. “Evenin’ Callie.  Bowl of Texas Red and a stout, please.  Oh, and, whatever Agent Diaz here wants.  Throw it all on my tab until we get her a line of credit, k?”

Callie had dark auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, without bangs.  Her hazel eyes were framed with crow’s feet to match the laugh lines around her full lips.  She flicked a glance over Lilly while she filled John’s beer from the tap. In a voice hinting of Eastern European roots, she said, “What’ll it be?  I’ve got a bit of that pumpkin bisque left, some fried chicken, borscht, and chili.  Hold one.”  She turned her head and yelled, at an impressive volume, “Georg!  That bread out yet?”

If Georg answered, Lilly couldn’t hear him.  Callie ladled chili into a bowl and pushed it toward John.  “So, no bread yet.  About anything you want for drink, 'cept I’m critically low on bourbon.”  This seemed to be a point of contention between her and John, since she shot him a nasty look.  He shrugged while juggling his beer and bowl. 

“I’ll be over there when you’ve got your grub.”  He jerked his head in the direction of a back corner.

Lilly wanted to ask how a pub on a space station—an alien space station—could make pumpkin bisque and fresh bread, but Callie appeared to be short on patience.  “Uh, the bisque and a coffee please.”