A.M. Scott's Blog, page 4

New Book Merch!

Did you know I have a Redbubble Store?

I do! And I just added some fun designs for book lovers!

There are a ton of different products, like bags, hats, mugs, and phone cases, and more designs, too!

Click here!

The post New Book Merch! first appeared on AM Scott.

Working Class Vegas Vamp Chapter 3

Working Class Vegas Vamp is a free urban fantasy serial, usually publishing on Tuesdays. It is unedited and subject to change. If published later, it may differ significantly, and will probably include additional material. Typos and English errors are likely; feel free to leave a comment or write me at am {AT} amscottwrites.com (revised as a standard email address. Pesky bots!) Available for a limited time only!

Chapter 3

 

When the sun fell below the horizon, I woke. The sheet still draped my body, and my security measures were in place. My phone, and my body, told me it was nine minutes to eight and the sun was down. I breathed into my daily mediation. When the singing bell chimed on my phone, I rose, pulled on a workout bra and shorts, and began my yoga routine. The double dose of mind-body work might seem like overkill, but control was key to survival in a hostile environment surrounded by temptation.

At the end, I stared at the ceiling, and wished I could fall back asleep like a human. But wishes weren’t horses or gold bars, so I got ready for the day—or night, in reality. Vegas was almost perfect for a working-class vamp—plenty of decent paying night shift jobs, ever-changing management that didn’t ask questions, and special service providers readily available. For example, I had three alternate identities, including disguises, ID, transportation and cash secured in different locations around the city, along with a fourth in a hidden safe built into my bed.

Sadly, I didn’t have alternate, permanent lightsafe lairs, but plenty of paranormals owed me favors. A few friends hated Theoden as much as I did, even if none of them had his power or money. They had something better—the loyalty of found family. I could count on shelter for a day or three. Theoden had scions and cash, but those broke under threat.

Anyone would break under enough pressure, but I also knew that Theoden rarely went to those extremes, preferring to use influence and money to get what he wanted. He thought of himself as civilized, when in fact, he was anything but. Lots of humans and paranormals had found that out the hard way.

But thinking about the admittedly hot vampire billionaire didn’t pay my considerable bills. I showered, moisturized, painted my face and curled my silver-streaked hair into beachy waves.

A black leather halter top topped by a bolero jacket, with tuxedo pants and thigh-high platform boots rounded out my look. All the bartenders and wait staff–male and female–wore variations on tuxedos. We got a generous allowance for our personalized outfits. And the drag costume designers were happy to help us out, since many of our choices sold well to civilians. Versions of my outfit had graced many “best woman” wedding attendants at Vegas wedding chapels and elsewhere.

I made more money dressed in a short skirt with spike heels, but it wasn’t worth the hassle of dealing with drunk idiots who didn’t understand the word no.

Nor was it worth the temptation to teach them the error of their ways.

I gathered my bag and keys, unlocked my lair, and listened at the barely cracked door. A snuffling noise meant Clover was sleeping. Guess I’d put off our discussion one more day. That meant I’d have plenty of time for a blood box and a brisk walk to the show rather than calling a car. Every penny I saved strengthened my safety net.

In the kitchen, I stretched to the top shelf and retrieved two boxes, popping the straw in one and sucking it down without pausing while putting the other in my bag. After flattening the box, I threw my boots in the waterproof pocket in my tote, and left the apartment, locking it behind me. Hopefully Clover would wake in time for her shift, but if she didn’t, it wasn’t my problem. We had a deal, and babysitting wasn’t part of it. If she missed the rent again, she was out. I had plenty of potential roommates and she knew it. It wasn’t about the money, but the security of a daylighter who owed me. Maybe I wouldn’t have that discussion at all; I’d just kick her to the curb and get a new human. Or maybe a were—they were physically stronger and only a liability near the full moon.

I trod the covered walkway, avoiding the soft spots in the concrete, and trotted down the rickety stairs to the parking area below. The elevator was broken again, but I wouldn’t risk being trapped anyway.

Rustling from the dumpsters meant someone had left the gates open again, letting homeless scavengers inside. Most of them were harmless, but this complex housed quite a few elderly and handicapped residents; they’d learned to carry pepper gel or tasers to scare off the few bad apples who wanted more than the leftovers they could get from the garbage. I’d make another complaint to the apartment managers, but it would do little good. The complex was falling apart, and the slum lord owners didn’t care. The only thing keeping this place full was the convenient location just a short distance from the Vegas Strip.

A brisk walk got me to the backdoor of Casino Royale, where I held my card to the lock and entered my code. I trudged up the mostly empty, plain concrete hallway to the back door of the Fantastique Bar, got through the locks, put my platform boots on and threw my things in my locker. I slid my phone into the inner pocket in my bolero–the opening was at the back of my neck, protecting my spine and making it hard to steal–and entered the bar.

Swiping my card into the closest terminal, I clocked in, and brought the house lights up. Under the bright LEDs, the shiny black and silver plastic looked cheap and cheesy, but with stage lighting, it turned glamorous and glittery. I checked the main floor and the semi-private boxes, but the cleaning crew had done their usual stellar job. The bar, an edifice of black lacquer and chrome with comfortable leather stools, gleamed too. I pulled fruit from the fridge and sliced, prepping the cocktail stations for a busy night, hoping that Theoden wouldn’t show up.

Over the next hour, staff and performers trickled in. Someone turned on music, but kept the level low in the house. The volume would rise during prep time, until it was at pre-show levels just before opening at ten pm. The first show was at eleven, the second at one am with a forty-five minute break between. Early by Vegas standards, but it worked well with the other shows in the Royale. It worked well for me too. I got home well before sunrise even at summer’s height.

“Going to be a slammer tonight,” Troy said. He worked hard and looked great in his tuxedo pants with suspenders, bow tie and no shirt. He was extra popular with bridal parties. “Hotel is full of tech-bros.”

“Ugh. Those guys are terrible tippers,” Janice whined. She tossed her long, straight, honey blonde hair over her shoulder. “And they don’t take “no” for an answer. Hope security’s on top of it tonight.” Janice wore a shiny black satin corset with ribbon lacing and her shirt was short and tight. She glided through her tables carrying heavy trays overhead on towering stilettos without ever spilling. Being a werewolf helped. I wished she was available for more shifts, because the patrons loved her.

“No worries, we got you.” The gargoyle security team lead, Matias, grumbled from his post at the end of the bar. His gray-tinged skin, along with a little natural glamor, made him hard to see against the dark walls. I’d known he was there, but only because I could hear him breathing. Once the show music started, he’d fade into the background until a threat brought him out. Then, his six-six height and massive shoulders did most of his job—except for the idiots too drunk to see.

“Thanks, babe!” Janice threw him an air-kiss.

Troy growled. “I’ll protect you.”  Her packmate wasn’t a fan of interspecies dating.

If it was fully consensual and didn’t impact our work environment, I didn’t care. Troy could snarl all he wanted if he did his job and didn’t get in anyone’s way. But he didn’t have to worry; Janice wasn’t interested in Matias. She just liked to tweak Troy’s nose.

I couldn’t blame her. Troy was pretty, but not very bright, and he had delusions of pack leadership. Knowing the reputations of the alpha, beta and omega of the Vegas Strip pack, I found that highly unlikely. He’d remain a mid-pack enforcer until he died.

“No, you’ll stay behind the bar, working, or Char will have your blood for dinner.” Janice wagged her finger in front of Troy’s face.

He sneered, but couldn’t help glancing at me. I stared back, and licked my upper lip. I’d never take blood from him, but he didn’t know that. He turned away, stacking cocktail shakers at his station. Janice laughed and twirled her tray.

Yup, pack leadership was unlikely if he couldn’t stare down one working-class vamp.

***To be continued***

Working Class Vegas Vamp Copyright © 2024 by AM Scott. All Rights Reserved.

The post Working Class Vegas Vamp Chapter 3 first appeared on AM Scott.

Working Class Vegas Vamp Chapter 2

Working Class Vegas Vamp is a free urban fantasy serial, usually publishing on Tuesdays. It is unedited and subject to change. If published later, it may differ significantly, and will probably include additional material. Typos and English errors are likely; feel free to leave a comment or write me at am {AT} amscottwrites.com (revised as a standard email address. Pesky bots!) Available for a limited time only!

Chapter 2

 

After three more nights of Theoden watching me, Roger, the latest in a long string of show managers, stomped to the bar. “Char, you’ve got to do something about that guy. He’s not buying, and he’s taking up valuable real estate.” He pulled five Benjamins out of the tip jar. “Put those in the till for a shot of Pappy.”

I took the bills and rang it up as ordered. “You want him out? Get security to throw him out. Or ban him from the bar.” I met his gaze. “Not. My. Job.”

Roger scowled. “You know I can’t do that.”

”Well, I’m not doing it. Or anything else with him. And if you order me to do what he wants, I’ll take it to the cops. Want to go down for forced solicitation?” Roger was human; he didn’t know I’d never go to the authorities. I had better options.

Except I didn’t. Not with the night ruler of Vegas determined to own me.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” He held up his hands like he was surrendering, then dropped them. “But if he keeps coming in and throwing out those ‘mess with me and die’ vibes, I’ll have no choice but to let you go.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to. You’re a great floor manager, and an excellent bartender. You make my job easy. But we can’t have that kind of buzz kill at the show, and you know it.”

Like I had all evening, I kept my expression placid, but my heart sank. I’d noticed Theoden’s dampening effect; it wasn’t surprising Roger had picked up on it too. Finding a new job was a hassle I didn’t need. I’d been in this one for years, outlasting manager after manager, because I was good—no, I was great. I kept the customers happy, and solved staff and performer issues before they became problems.

But tonight, no one came to me for help. They’d assisted each other or asked security to step in. The show manager, Tanya, hadn’t even said hello. Nor had any of the performers, and they usually did. No one wanted Theoden’s attention. I sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Roger. I’m not giving that man an inch.” I’d planned to stay here a couple more years, and build my emergency funds higher before I moved. But maybe it was time to leave after all. Someplace with a gloomier climate, far from Theoden’s influence.

“I don’t know either. But the big bosses will notice eventually, then you’ll be gone.” He tapped the bar. “Figure it out.”

Roger wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t the brightest, either. I’d get no help from him. I checked off closing tasks, got my people clocked out, and left Roger with the final tally for the night. Matias, the security chief, escorted us to the ride share pickup. I grabbed my taser and walked away. No one bothered me. The locals knew better, and most of the drug addicts were passed out or on the Strip, harassing the tourists.

After two long Vegas blocks of crumbling concrete, flashing neon, and wary homeless, I entered my lousy Paradise Road apartment complex. I climbed three flights of stairs, avoiding the wobbly railing and the soft spots in the concrete walkways. At my door, I unlocked it and stepped inside. Nothing moved.

I closed and locked the door, then slid the heavy security bar into place and trod across the cheap, stiff carpeting to the sliding glass door. The disgusting stench of unfiltered cigarettes and marijuana singed my nose and clenched my fists. I’d have to destroy the contraband and start Clover’s detox over again. If she’d stick with the vapes I gave her, she’d be almost free of her nicotine and THC addiction—and the apartment wouldn’t stink. But someone always gave into her big doe eyes, handing her the means to keep the monkey on her back.

Time to hack the cameras at The Stage Door Bar again, because this seemed targeted; personal even. Or maybe I was paranoid.

But it wasn’t paranoia when they really were all out to get you. Theoden had painted a big shiny target on my back a long time ago and he was upping the ante. But Char Flammen was a survivor. I’d learned to hide in plain sight and connect with the right people, but I was always ready to run.

Unless the sun was up, of course. Fortunately, I’d found a unique solution to that problem.

Or I thought I’d had. But Clover looked less and less reliable with every passing day. Time to have a talk, but not tonight.

I stomped across the room, taking my anger out on the floor. The sliding glass door dragged through the oxidized track with a whoosh, mixed with the rumble of the inevitable desert grit, and banged against the frame. The grumpy woman downstairs was likely to leave another note on our door, but I didn’t care. I paid extra for the top floor just so I didn’t have to listen to an upstairs neighbor. She could do the same. My ass hit the canvas chair on the tiny balcony, and I unzipped my thigh-high platform boots, kicking them off to land with a one-two thump on the living room floor, then loosened my corset. I could breathe deeply again—too bad that myth, along with the perfect face and superhero strength, was wrong.

Being a drag show bartender paid well, but the required costume wasn’t comfortable. My feet ached, my wrists ached from tossing bottles, my ears rang from the loud music, and my body was stiff from walking the length of the bar over and over. If only I’d been turned in my twenties, rather than mid-forties. But I’d be dead, because like many escaping their small towns for the city’s bright lights, I’d been a fool. Older and wiser Char had learned from her early mistakes, and that helped me survive my new life, or facsimile thereof.

Flicking on the fan in the corner blew away the fumes of Clover’s failings, replacing it with cool desert air and vehicle exhaust. Pulling a blood box from my oversized tote, I stabbed the straw through the foil, sucking down the thick, lukewarm, life-sustaining brew, and ignored my craving for the good stuff straight from the source. I sympathized with Clover’s addictions, because I had my own.

Unlike hers, not indulging mine would kill me quickly because it wasn’t so much an addiction as a necessity. But I could, and did, choose how to fulfill my needs, minimizing the harm my survival created, no matter how my inner darkness fought the chains of will I’d forged.

With the flick of a fingernail, I shredded the box’s seam and licked the last traces of blood from the foil. I craved that taste—and hated my desire. Even the boxes–a mix of herd animals with a little human, the equivalent of a protein bar–were delicious.

Sated for the moment, I returned to the living room, closing the sliding glass door and pressing the room-darkening cover firmly into place. Then I pulled the heavy shades, enclosing the room in darkness. Deepest night to human eyes, but in mine, electricity shimmered and the living plants fluoresced green, lighting the room effectively as the neon of Vegas.

I shoved the flat box in the garbage, filled my water bottle from the filter pitcher in the refrigerator—chlorine was bad for vampires, too—and retreated to my sanctuary, where’d I’d sleep the day away.

Or die the day away, depending on who you believed. Since I’d left Theoden’s lair early, I didn’t know which was true. Nor did I care. Over the decades, I’d learned the difference between many of the myths and truth on my own, and I was better off for it. So many vamps believed everything they were told, forging their own chains.

Inside my room, I turned the three deadbolts set low, middle and high on the steel door. Then I placed the two steel bars across their welded brackets and pressed the rubber seals tight over the tiny seam. A clever invader would attempt to go through the walls instead, but one of the most attractive parts of this barely working class apartment complex was the abundance of concrete block walls. The only flimsy wall in my suite was between the bedroom and bathroom. I’d placed metal bars across the only window, then laid bricks, and another set of bars, making my lair secure.

In a fire, I’d die, but I wasn’t really living anyway.

A jet thundered through the sky above the apartment, the first of many taking off today. At zero-three-fifty, it was almost certainly cargo jet. The fleeced tourists would sleep through their takeoffs from just before six that morning all the way until eleven tonight.

Vegas never slept, it was true. But every thinking being had to at some point, for mental health if not bodily. I threw the sheet back, flopped on my ridiculously expensive, but supportive mattress, and meditated until the sun rose at five twenty-seven. Then I dropped into a darkness that Vegas visitors never saw.

***To be continued***

Working Class Vegas Vamp Copyright © 2024 by AM Scott. All Rights Reserved.

The post Working Class Vegas Vamp Chapter 2 first appeared on AM Scott.

Working Class Vegas Vamp Chapter 1

Working Class Vegas Vamp is a free urban fantasy serial, usually publishing on Tuesdays. It is unedited and subject to change. If published later, it may differ significantly, and will probably include additional material. Typos and English errors are likely; feel free to leave a comment or write me at am {AT} amscottwrites.com (revised as a standard email address. Pesky bots!) Available for a limited time only!

 

Chapter 1

A rock fist knocking the shiny black bar under my polishing cloth was my first warning. The second was citrus, incense, and ginger with a strong undernote of rusting iron wrinkling my nostrils and sinking my spirits. I kept the rag moving and reinforced my pleasant, welcoming expression, then looked up.

Klaus Theoden slid onto the stool in front of me. Lucky me. My least favorite customer first thing tonight—for the third time this week. The hot billionaire had a hard time understanding the word no. I suspected that “playing hard to get” was my primary attraction—even though I wasn’t playing at all—so I tried to be bland and slightly servile. But the Night King of Vegas rankled me too easily. “What’s your poison tonight, Mr. Theoden?”

“Call me Klaus and you, of course, Charlene.” One corner of his lush lips rose, but I knew he wasn’t smiling. He never did.

I slid the list of top shelf liquor on the bar in front of him, adjusting my tone to bored. “Not for sale. What would you like off the menu?” He might be rich and gorgeous, but he was sadly predictable. He probably looked up the most exclusive drinks, cologne, and clothing so he knew what to demand. Or told one of his lackeys to figure it out—that was more likely. Either way, expensive didn’t equal tasteful.

I reached for the Pappy Van Winkle Reserve, our most expensive bourbon whiskey, kept just for him. Occasionally some other rich dude trying to impress ordered it, but even at the hottest drag show in Vegas, few would pay $500 a shot. Sure, that was double what it would be elsewhere, but this was the Vegas Strip. A few months ago, a tech bro had bought a bottle, and tipped me a glass. After a single sip, I’d passed the rest to Troy; he’d raved about it all night long. It hadn’t tasted all that different to me, but I wasn’t much of a drinker. Of alcohol, that is.

I turned back to Theoden and raised the bottle along with a single eyebrow. When he didn’t say anything, I shrugged and pulled a fresh cloth to polish the bottle. He liked to play games. I didn’t. I finished, and put the bottle back, then grabbed the next, an equally expensive tequila. I shined bottles while Theoden attempted to burn a hole in my back. Laser eyes not being one of his long list of advantages, he didn’t succeed.

Troy didn’t bother approaching—he’d get nothing but disdainful sneers. Theo was here for me.

Turning me was a rare mistake on Theoden’s part. Caught in the crossfire of a mob shootout in the Starlight Casino in 1966, I’d dragged my dying body out the back door to see the lights of Vegas for the last time. Of course I told the blond hottie with the ice blue eyes that I wanted to live—who didn’t? But even as a regular, he didn’t know the real me.

He’d seen a middle-aged woman fighting the effects of age with makeup and moisturizer, making perfect drinks, and entertaining her customers. He, like so many of the businessmen leaning on my bar, probably believed I made my real living on her back. But they were wrong.

Flattery got you a long way if you did it right, and Char Flammen had perfected her shtick. I kept the banter light, with just enough bite to intrigue and get the big tips. Theoden wasn’t the first man who’d followed me out a door after a shift, thinking I’d actually been interested. Most of them took the “no, thank you” with grace. The few that didn’t got my spiked high heel through their foot and a punch between their legs—if security didn’t get them first. These days, I used a taser—much less effort, more effective, and less likely to end in a lawsuit—and an official escort out the unmarked employee exit after each shift.

Too bad for Theoden that his first genuine conversation with me was the last gasps of a dying woman. And too bad he hadn’t taken the time to demand the usual assurances of undying eternal loyalty, because I would have turned him down flat. I’d been chained to a man before—I’d literally rather die. His sloppiness cost him, and he kept trying to rectify the mistake without admitting he’d messed up. In reality, his ego kept me alive.

Fool.

But in return, I had to fight his constant attempts to bring me back under his control with brains, not brawn. Or money. He had billions, a legion of beholden and besotted followers, and he wasn’t stupid, just arrogant.

Pity, that. Stupid men were easily led.

Theo remained at the bar, silently watching me all night. Even during the most crowded hours, the stools on either side of him stayed empty. Women approached occasionally, but he never acknowledged them, just stared at me, no matter what I was doing.

At closing time, he dropped a stack of cash on the bar and walked out without a word. I put the cash in the shared tip jar, although management would take half of it, since he hadn’t bought anything. But they knew better than to throw him out—the rules didn’t apply to men like Theoden.

***To be continued***

Working Class Vegas Vamp Copyright © 2024 by AM Scott. All Rights Reserved.

The post Working Class Vegas Vamp Chapter 1 first appeared on AM Scott.

Awesome Amazon Prime Day Deals!

Hey, did you know Amazon’s next Prime Days are Oct 8-9, 2024?

I got some cool stuff on the last Prime Day that I wanted to share with you.  Most of these aren’t book related–they’re things that make life happier/easier/better for me, and I thought others might appreciate these items, too. These are all affliate links–if you click and buy, I make a few cents with no additional cost to you, but feel free to skip that!

But first, coffee. I can’t drink much of it anymore, but I LOVE dark, black coffee. At home, I use an Aeropress and I love it: https://amzn.to/3N6MyZm

It comes with paper filters, but you can get a stainless steel filter that works great from several manufacturers.  There are several Aeropress versions, too. I’ve had this one for over 5 years.

It’s a bit bulky for travel, so I just got the pour over coffee filters (on the Team Rubicon mug): https://amzn.to/3Y5say1

They work for cold brew, too! Fill with ground coffee, plop in a mug of water and put in the fridge overnight.

After coffee, I walk my dogs every day. Three miles in the morning, and another 2 in the evening. I put a lot of miles on my socks, and I have a hard time finding socks I like. But I really like these: https://amzn.to/3Nd4EbZ

Comfy, not too thick or thin, good range of colors, and they wick sweat away. They’ve held up so far, but I’ve only had them a few months.

As you know, I live in western Montana. We don’t have air conditioning. Most of the year, we don’t need it, but July/August/September are too hot to turn the oven on. I’ve been looking for a pizza oven, but they’re super expensive. Finally, I found this one: Cuisinart 3-in-1

It may not be up to true “artisan” standards, but I’ve made excellent pizza and flatbread in it. The grill is good too! I haven’t used the griddle yet; I don’t need that much room. The Cuisinart would be awesome for tailgating, and we’ll take it camping next year.

I bought this Feasto Cart to put it on, which works great!

 

 

 

Finally, I’m really happy with this small waffle maker. It’s perfect for two of us, works great, and doesn’t take up much counterspace.

I hope you’ve found something in this list that makes you happy, too!

 

The post Awesome Amazon Prime Day Deals! first appeared on AM Scott.

Happy Holidays from the Amazing Sleeping Man!

So, I am not going to start this letter by telling you how wonderful the past year was. It was pretty spectacular. Instead, I think in these serious times we need to ask ourselves a serious question: As of the date you have received this letter, how much Eggnog (the real stuff, not that commie-light-less-fat stuff) have you consumed? I am talking straight Eggnog; please do not count any additions of an alcoholic nature. The reason for this question is I can not find any at the local store. Apparently someone is drinking my allotment (4 gallons) or there is has been a gross underestimate by the Eggnog industry as to this year’s demand. I knew I should have bought some of the canned stuff last March.

The biggest news is we have is a new member of the family. No, not a kid; we are a little old for that and besides, I do not like sharing my toys. Instead we got another dog. His name is Shepherd Book, Book for short, and no, I did not pick the name, he is named after a character from the TV show Firefly. Oddly, our other dog, Zoe, is named after a character from the same TV show series. I am starting to see a trend here. I wanted to go with “Hilts”, the coolest character in the movie The Great Escape, played by Steve McQueen, but was overruled. Again, I am starting to see a trend here.

Anyway, he was one of eleven puppies found in some wackadooddle hoarder’s house. The entire litter was malnourished. So we picked one and began the lovely process of getting him healthy, house trained, etc. We did a DNA test on him, and he is 55% German Shepherd, 25% Pit Bull (that made me a bit nervous), and 20% American Staffordshire Terrier (Think Spuds Mackenzie dog from the 80s beer commercials or General Patton’s dog in real life). He looks like a collection of various dog breed parts and weighs about 50 pounds. A solid 50 pounds. He must work out at night. He gets along with other dogs, loves to play and keeps the neighbor’s 120 pound Bouvier des Flandres busy. He has amazing navigation skills; we thought we had lost him on two different hikes. On one he made it back to the truck long before we did, a mile from where we last saw him, and the other time he found the trail and then found us. We have a tracker on him now, just in case. I do not think Zoe is too thrilled to have another dog, but she tolerates him, even though occasionally she has to put him in his place.

The biggest piece of news concerning me is I bought a new snowboard. So of course, we currently have very little snow. If you have any chickens or goats you can spare, please sacrifice them to the snow Gods, as soon as possible, preferably at midnight while dancing around a bonfire naked. We need snow—all of my fans can not wait and they write me letters and tell me I am great (Shoutout to Joe Walsh for all of you 70s Rockers.) I have videos to make and post on Youtube. Videos can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/@theamazingsleepingman I have not posted any from this year due to the above mentioned lack of snow. In case you are wondering, that is not really me in the avatar on the homepage. It is one of the main characters in Anne Marie’s Lightwave book series. The artist did say I was her inspiration… to find a better model.

So to answer your obvious question, Anne Marie is still busy writing books. Gratuitous plug for her books: https://www.amscottwrites.com/ Sign up for her newsletter and get a free story. Just ask us for a sticker, too.

She is also branching out from space opera stories into romance suspense. Do any of you know anyone at the Hallmark Channel?

(Note from AM: Different newsletters and free books for sci-fi and romantic suspense–make sure you sign up for the right one! See the tabs at the top.)

Anne constantly comes to me asking for romantic inputs, because it is well known what a romantic guy I am. For example, I proposed over the phone, and no, we were not in different countries at the time. We were in the same town. But honestly, is this not the first time you have heard of a wedding proposal done this way? Besides, it worked. So stop rolling your eyes at my success.

Anne also continues to be in demand as a chainsaw instructor for Team Rubicon. She teaches several classes a year and also goes on disaster responses. She doesn’t have a speaking role, but you can see her in this video by the Bungie Foundation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYqDOlsqmaw

How good of a sawyer is she, you ask? Well, we had a large tree on our property we needed to drop this year. It had a slight lean bias towards the house, just enough to cause my stomach to feel queasy about dropping it. After several discussions and many measurements, we decided Anne could drop it. Now, this was by far the biggest tree either of us had dropped and we have dropped several over 100 feet. The target drop point was a very narrow area between another big tree and our woodshed. If it hit the big tree it would get hung up and then we would have a two-tree problem or it could hit the woodshed or things could go really sideways and it would come down on the rear porch and the house. (Hello, USAA, we need to make a claim.). Well Anne made a perfect cut and dropped it right between the other big tree and the woodshed. Unfortunately, I do not have any video of it coming down as I was either pounding in wedges trying get the tree to fall or being the safety lookout as Anne cut the last bit to make it fall. I think the hardest part was taking down the fence to make a safe getaway path or putting the fence back up.

We have also extended our record on finishing up the basement bathroom remodel. Twelve years and it is still not done. It is hard to finish something when you really have not started. We do have a paint color picked out. “You Are My Sunshine” yellow, in case you are curious.

Other than that, we went camping, visited relatives, hiked, survived a grizzly bear attack, entered a few motorcycle races; blah blah blah, you get the picture. Standard Montana stuff. Just kidding! We did not race our motorcycles.

If you are interested in our year in pictures, Anne has a bunch on her Instagram accounts. Her accounts have open access so you do not have to be a super-hip person with your own Instagram account to see the photos, but you will see book ads, too, so pick your poison. See here:

Science fiction stuff: https://instagram.com/amscottwrites

Romantic suspense stuff: https://instagram.com/annemscott_author

Hope you have a wonderful Christmas, a Happy New Year, and you enjoy all of the upcoming political TV ads!

The Amazing Sleeping Man, Anne Marie, Zoe and Shepherd Book

The post Happy Holidays from the Amazing Sleeping Man! first appeared on AM Scott.

Time Guild 1 Kickstarter is here!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/amscott/time-guild-book-1-exclusive-edition

It’s here! Time to pledge for Time Guild 1!

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Time Guild 1 is coming! Follow the Kickstarter today!

Want Time Guild 1 early and for less? Follow my Kickstarter here! You’ll get notified when it goes live on Sept 5th, 2023!

New to the Folding Space Universe? Lightwave: Nexus Station is free at all retailers. Or check out Chapter 1 of Lightwave: Clocker below.

 

Chapter 1: Saree

Saree slid through the crowd, a double-time bass drum pounding in her chest. Bending her knees, she hid among the masses in the passageway, trying to reach her shuttle before the black-haired man caught her. The flashes of red in her rear-view holo increased, and she fought back the impulse to run. Thank all the suns she’d tagged the man right away.

Outside her airlock, a crowd of people stood enthralled by a wailing busker banging on an out-of-tune guitar. Saree slipped between them, thankful for the throng’s lack of taste. They must be truly desperate for entertainment. Covering her mouth with her hand, she murmured, “Hal, emergency ingress alpha-four-two-uniform.”

At the airlock, she reached out to enter her code on the worn, grimy keypad, but the hatch swung open. She ducked in, securing it and the next three. Collapsing against her inner shuttle hatch, she ignored the sharp struts pressing into her back. She was home, thank all the suns. That was just too close. She closed her eyes and breathed. Blanking her mind, she slowed and deepened her shallow panting, reveling in the quiet…no, not working.

The whole slow-motion escape replayed in her head like a horror vid. Maintaining her carefully crafted persona while being hunted was so rad-blasted hard. She’d strolled the passages, gawking, seemingly fascinated by every performer along the way. She didn’t waste any time on the awful musician outside her shuttle airlock.

She’d considered stunning the dark-haired man and hoping nobody noticed, but he was good, staying back and blending into the crowd. Stunning him meant taking down a lot of beings, innocents caught in the crossfire. And anyone stunned on the station would be robbed before the authorities reacted. If they reacted at all.

Enough. She wasn’t out of danger, not until she left the system. Leaving the station might be tricky, depending on who was after her and why. Sucking in a big breath, Saree pushed off the chilly hatch, no longer shaking like a thruster on a loose pivot joint.

She strode to the pilot’s seat, the worn, dark gray plas tiles beneath her feet popping a tiny bit with every step, the cracking comfortingly normal. She patted Big Beige on her way. Saree paused mid-step, her hand hovering over the frequency standard maintenance case. Maybe it was time. She had no offensive capabilities; she should maximize her defenses.

Facing Big Beige, she planted her feet and put her hand on the case’s top-mounted security sensor. “Hal, implement Security Protocol Zeta.”

Hal’s smooth, calm, human male voice replied. “Security Protocol Zeta initiated. Passphrase, please.”

At Hal’s light tenor tones, her tight shoulder muscles unwound. “Hickory dickory dock, the Sa’sa ran up the tetrahedron.” She winced at the bite of the DNA sampler.

“Security Protocol Zeta implemented. Please note, the additional security measures will add approximately thirteen point two seconds to maintenance case release. This could be fatal during an emergency evacuation.”

“Noted, Hal, and risk accepted. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Saree.”

She walked to the pilot’s seat and plopped down. Under her weight, the seat sighed and creaked, the seen-better-days padding almost flat. The smooth, light gray pleather under her hands was dark from decades of use. But she didn’t care if it looked old and worn—the shuttle systems were top-notch. And sitting in the pilot’s seat meant escaping, control, safety.

Not really. Safety was an illusion. But she was safer.

Finding a fold transport to take her and her shuttle far away from Dronteim was her first priority. A trustworthy one leaving soon—very soon. But there was no sense in escaping a black hole just to fold into a supernova. Find the right folder, a safe folder, was always difficult.

Sweeping a hand across the main control area, Saree entered her security codes, the big shuttle screens lighting in her standard display. She brought up the station security vid outside her shuttle. The black-haired man was still there, using his holo in security mode, concealing his face.

“Saree, you appear to be in some distress. Would you like a calmer?”

“No, thank you, Hal.” One of these days, she’d have to change Hal’s programming to remove the default to mood-altering substances or allow Hal to compile a personality profile. But allowing Hal to develop a profile meant more data available for exploitation if someone got through her net defenses. Better to leave the former inhabitant’s in place, and do a little more work herself, even if it meant putting up with some oddities. Besides, sometimes Hal’s predictability was strangely comforting, especially in his ultra-calm voice.

“Some Jhinzer tea?”

And sometimes, he was annoying. “Not now, Hal.” She had to get out of here. Tea could wait. Maybe she would make those profile mods.

“My apologies, Saree.”

She scanned her shuttle status—everything ready—and relaxed into the chair. Initiating external net access to Dronteim Station, she called up the departing interstellar space fold transport schedule. Even if the dark-haired man’s surveillance was her sometimes too-vivid imagination combined with her understandable paranoia—doubtful—she’d be better off leaving, fast.

Saree pulled up the Guild priority list and set her standard match program running between the Guild list and the departure schedule. But wait—speed was a priority. Inserting ‘departure time’ as the new number three criteria, Saree tried to relax while the program calculated. It shouldn’t take long in their current location. Dronteim was rated ‘frontier-safe’ by The Guide but it was still the frontier of human space; criminal organizations and pirates abounded.

Which one was after her on Dronteim Station? The man with the black hair and olive skin was following—no, hunting—her, but she didn’t know why. A young female human alone in the fringe was often considered an easy target, so it could be simple opportunity. But they might suspect her true identity.

A chime sounded, startling her. Saree frowned. Lost in her head again. A bad habit for a solo traveler—being in her shuttle didn’t equal safety. Glancing at the top matches between available fold transports and Guild requirements, she grimaced. Maybe she needed the tea after all. At times like these, she missed Ia’asan and the clutch. Life was a lot simpler in the co-pilot’s chair.

And having real, live backup, even if it wasn’t human? Priceless.

Saree studied the fold transport match list again. Blast and rad. None of the choices were good. Few folders departed in the next thirty standard days and none of them were ideal. She snorted. Most were poor at best. Either they were fixed-route locals, quick but potentially criminal, or unknown and unrated.

She removed two of the transports immediately—they had ties to Familia, and Familia was far too curious about her, both in general and specifically here. The black-haired, olive-skinned man had the ‘Familia look.’ She checked the station vid again. The man was gone, but there was no way to know if he’d given up.

The next possibility, Universe-Tera, was a good line known for their dependability and security, but the particular folder was ancient, slow and on a milk run.

What was a milk run, anyway? She shook the thought away. A question for another time—she had more important orbits to achieve.

The final folder on the list was a relatively new company, with little available on the net. Saree dug deeper, despite her instincts yelling, “Run!” Lightwave Fold Transport appeared to be a single-ship company, with mixed reviews. She filtered out the obvious bot-generated reviews, but nothing cleared.

Scrolling down, she read the individual entries, rather than relying on the aggregate. She tapped an impatient rhythm on the armrest. Reviewing each took too much time, but folding into the unknown wasn’t smart.

Some shuttles left bare-bones comments of “adequate,” “sufficient,” and similar condemning-with-faint-praise statements, but a few said more. The recent reviews raved about the food, a big surprise—often, folders provided the cheapest pre-made stuff they could find.

One entry raved about the speed, precision, and security, but warned the captain put the wellbeing of his transport and shuttles above every other consideration. Which didn’t seem like a negative to her; the fringe was dangerous. And if the folder didn’t survive, none of the shuttles would.

Many of the other comments said the captain was cold and all business, but that seemed like a plus. If he were all business, he wouldn’t be looking into her business. Just another set of strangers passing by—lonely, but safe.

She thumped her fingers against the chair arms impatiently. Lightwave would get her to one of the higher-priority jobs, although that particular job didn’t pay the fold costs. But…Cygnus was light years away, on the fringes of known space. Getting away from Dronteim system was a very big plus—signs of Familia were everywhere.

Bringing up The Guide listing for Cygnus, she scanned it. Not much Familia in Cygnus, another big plus, although there were plenty of other typical frontier dangers listed. Except for Cygnus Prime, but if she could afford planetfall on Deneb, she wouldn’t bother with a job. Saree huffed out a laugh.

Jittering in her chair, she initiated external net access again, and searched for more reviews, tracing Lightwave’s travels. Neither Lightwave nor its crew had much of a net signature, but there was no sign of criminal activity or behavior. Apparently, Lightwave kept their noses clean, doing their job and nothing more. Or someone was cleaning up after them. Not likely; not for a single ship in the fringes.

Saree’s fingers drummed harder and faster on the thin pleather, echoing her impatience. Nothing but pressure from Gov Human raised Cygnus’s priority—whatever mega-corporation owned the system also owned someone in Gov Human. They had a human-centric population and government, lots of high-priority, low-pay jobs, no Familia, fringe of nowhere frontier—the perfect place for her.

Saree finished her chair-arm drum solo with a flourish. Lightwave Fold Transport was it. She sent a message to Lightwave, to confirm availability and price, and started the computer calculating the transfer orbit from the station to the fold transport pickup orbit, matching Lightwave’s parameters. Surprisingly, she got a reply from Lightwave before she’d finished double-checking the computer’s calculations. The price was as quoted, they had one slot available and would depart after she docked.

“Hal, is there anything unusual in this contract?”

“Yes, Saree. This provision states: ‘Shuttle owner and pilot must contact Lightwave Fold Transport with human-spectrum vid and voice-enabled before contract confirmation.’”

Hmm. Saree considered the provision. Unusual, but not unique. It might signal xenophobia, but it might not, and since her DNA was human, it didn’t matter. She may as well get it done. Lightwave would see nothing but slightly shabby gray plas behind her; they wouldn’t get any real intel from the vid except her face.

Initiating the comm link, Saree wished for Jhinzer tea to soothe her dry mouth. She cracked a smile. Despite not allowing a true personality profile, Hal knew her well.

“Shuttle Centauri Kilo-Uniform-Tango-Six-Zero-One-Five-Four-Four, state the name of your vessel, owner, pilot, and other occupants,” a computer-generated voice announced.

“Shuttle Centauri Kilo-Uniform-Tango-Six-Zero-One-Five-Four-Four, called Fortuna Lucia, absentee owner Centauri University, Pilot Candidate Scholar Cary Sessan, no other occupants.” The shuttle’s name came with it, but the Familia-tinged designation had served her well as an initial cover and distraction in the past. Overall, it was fortunate indeed.

A face appeared in the holo projected in front of her. Human, male, cinnamon-brown skin, thick black brows glowering above dark brown eyes. Pretty eyes, but cold like the outermost planet in a dying star system. A faint scar across the right side of his forehead, bisecting his eyebrow, showed through short dark brown hair. His nose, prominent and slightly hooked, presided over compressed lips in a square face. He was the definition of a man who’d seen bad things and was ready for more. Not a bad attitude for a fold transport pilot. If he was the pilot.

Saree snickered inside. No matter his role on Lightwave, no one would ever mistake him for a vid star, so why smile? “Scholar Sessan, you may approach. Turn your controls over to Lightwave for docking as specified in your instructions. Do you have any questions?”

“No, Pilot? Captain?” A name or a title would be nice…

“Please transfer funds and initiate your release from the station now, Scholar. We will depart after you dock.” The screen blanked.

Humph. That explained the “cold, all business” comments. “Rude” might be a better term after insisting on a face-to-face, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She wanted a quick departure, and she was getting one. And she wasn’t vid-star material either—no reason to waste time staring at her unremarkable face, with the same tan skin and mud-brown eyes and hair shared by the vast majority of space-traveling humanity. Still, he could take a few seconds to introduce himself. Suns, why insist on the vid when he didn’t ask any questions?

Just as well. More talking meant more chances to get in trouble, and she needed to leave Dronteim—immediately. Saree snorted a laugh. The irony of being upset by rudeness, when she’d done so much worse to so many.

Initiating the station undocking procedure, she waited for the station release. Thankfully, she didn’t have to talk to a live being, just transfer credits, a ridiculous number for her very short stay. The docking clamps released and the station pushed her away into the transit zone. Saree sighed in relief. The man chasing her wasn’t well connected in Dronteim or hadn’t made the necessary bribes to hold her.

She engaged the station-approved flight path, the shuttle thrusters shoving her back into her chair until the grav generators kicked in. While they flew to the rendezvous point, she confirmed her credit transfer to Lightwave.

Confirmation and flight complete, she set her controls using the codes specified in the contract, checked the transfer was to Lightwave, not some pirate, and disabled her meteor shielding. Reluctantly, Saree removed her hands from the controls. She hated not flying her ship, but it was standard procedure for interstellar folders—they were big credit investments.

The docking maneuver was smooth and uneventful. Relieved to be outbound, Saree completed the main engine shut-down procedures, the shuttle checks and made minimal net connections with Lightwave. She escaped Dronteim, and not a minute too soon. Safe.

Sagging with sheer relief in the pilot’s chair, Saree blew out a breath and deliberated joining the other travelers. She checked Lightwave’s local time; their standard day aligned with Dronteim Station. Unusual. They must have been in orbit for a long time.

Indicators flashed on the main screen, drawing her attention back to C2—they were moving. Guess the glowering man—whoever he was—hadn’t been kidding about leaving when she docked. They wanted to leave the back-of-beyond system as badly as she did.

Or someone was chasing them too.

If that was the case, there was little Saree could do about it now. Not without making things worse. If she went back, whoever was after her might be successful. Besides, independent folders were always a risk—nothing new there.

Downloading the list of other shuttles folding with Lightwave, she scanned them. She didn’t notice anything unusual. Except….one of the shuttles was from a Familia system. That wasn’t uncommon, and it didn’t always mean Familia ownership.

Saree dug a little further and frowned. But not listing the owner or pilot was suspicious. Great. Maybe she’d stay in her shuttle. Her rations were a little boring, but boredom beat danger. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d stayed on her shuttle—she’d folded on some scary transports. When your choices were all bad…

She scrolled through the list of Lightwave’s amenities. The usual observation lounge—although what you’d observe from a screen in the lounge versus a screen or holo anywhere else was a mystery—a dining facility and a big physical fitness module.

Well now, that would be worth leaving for. She could churn out klicks on her barebones treadmill, but there were better options available. A good, hard phys session would clear the remaining tension and fear from her body. She frowned. But only if there was nothing to fear on Lightwave.

“Saree, Lightwave Fold Transport dining would like to know if you will be joining them for the constellation departure dinner,” Hal said. “The message notes the kitchen is under the command of a student from Culinary Institute Sirius.”

Ooh. A very good reason to leave the shuttle. CIS trained some of the most inventive human chefs in the universe. Remembering one particular story, she chuckled. Inventive didn’t always equal delicious. There were several tales of practically inedible meals because a student chef was too wrapped up in one ingredient, or too intent on a certain look to think about common tastes. Saree pursed her lips.

A once-in-a-lifetime experience was available. She’d never eat a meal created by a CIS graduate. Even after she paid her Guild debt, she’d never earn enough credits for that kind of event.

But more importantly, a CIS student on board meant Lightwave was safe and stable—there’d be plenty of offers from other, bigger folders, so they must have something special. Creativity required basic human security. Lightwave looked better every second. “Hal, please confirm my attendance with my thanks for the invitation. Also, please confirm dress requirements and the time.”

“Certainly, Saree. Stand by.” Thirty-nine seconds later, Hal said, “Constellation departure and arrival dinners are formal. All other meals are informal. There is no guarantee the CIS student will prepare meals other than the formal dinners.”

Before she could ask, he continued. “Historical data suggests at least one meal a day will be prepared by the student. It also implies there will be no more than twenty and no less than ten beings for dinner. I will set a thirty-minute warning for you. The warning will chime in approximately forty-five point two minutes.”

“Thank you, Hal.”

“You are welcome, Saree.”

Computer experts insisted assistant programs weren’t Artificial Intelligences, didn’t have personalities and thanking them was a useless ritual, but Saree always erred on the side of caution. A little politeness cost nothing. She grinned. And if the AIs ever took over, maybe she’d survive.

More to the point, she had forty-five minutes to work off the tension and stress of her slow-motion escape. Opening her clothes storage, she threw on some workout gear. Saree picked up her sweat-soaked Scholar robes, keeping them at arm’s length and throwing them in the cleaner, her nose wrinkling at the stench of fear. At the airlock, she paused. “Hal, if you’ve been allowed access, please check the passageway outside the shuttle and the entire phys mod for beings.”

“Certainly, Saree. I see no beings of any kind. Would you like me to send a remote through the rest of the ship?”

Hmm. Saree pondered. Not a bad idea, but if the remote was spotted, it would put a cloud of suspicion on her right away. It wasn’t worth it, not yet. “Not right now. Thank you anyway, Hal. I just don’t want to be surprised going through the hatch.”

“After your return to the shuttle today, that is logical.”

Indeed. Saree put a towel, bev-tainer of water and stunner in a tote. “Hal, please secure the shuttle after I leave, and let me know if anyone attempts to enter or if there are any serious attempts on our net-interface.”

“Yes, Saree.”

“Thank you, Hal.”

“You are welcome, Saree.”

She worked through the airlock hatches, noting the folder’s airlock status lights worked correctly and the hatches swung smoothly, the seals shiny. Proper maintenance was always a good sign. Looking both ways along Lightwave’s passageway, Saree saw nothing but gray plas flooring and bland, beige walls decorated with bright orange and black ‘emergency escape’ labels.

She sniffed. Clean, too. Tension in her shoulders and back eased, and she headed toward the phys mod, the plas decking pleasantly supple under her feet. As she walked, her wariness returned—there were a lot of escape pods for a small shuttle folder. Perhaps Lightwave was bigger than she thought.

She examined Lightwave’s passenger map. The ship was built, like most fold transports, in a big cube. As she’d remembered, there were eight passenger shuttle bays, two per side. Lightwave’s shuttles took the two bays on top. The main engines and fold generators sat on the bottom of the cube. Crew quarters, air handlers, hydroponics and cargo bays were normally below the folder’s shuttles—Lightwave’s map showed no details, the top and bottom levels marked ‘restricted’—a good security precaution. Hmm. Maybe she should let Hal snoop a little.

The middle layer of the cube was dedicated to passengers, with the shuttle airlocks exiting to a passageway circling Lightwave. Inside the passageway, the lounge took a fourth of the space on one end, the end farthest from her shuttle bay. The physical fitness module took up a fourth of the closest end, with the dining area and kitchen in the middle. Additional hatchways allowed access between the interior sections and to the surrounding passageway.

Maybe Lightwave was extremely safety conscious? Along with the plethora of escape pods, interior safety hatches stood ready to divide the passageway, everything sparkling clean with no signs of poor maintenance, like lubricant leaks or corrosion. Saree approved; all too many folders skimped on interior emergency bulkheads and their upkeep.

Stepping into the fitness facility, she scanned for beings while she moved away from the hatch. No one here—perfect. There was always one weird being hanging around, watching, making her nervous. Shaking the thought away, she surveyed the equipment. The phys mod was exceedingly well equipped, a pleasant surprise.

Saree wandered through the machines. Rows of aerobic phys machines: treadmills, configurable for flat, stairs or uneven surfaces, bikes, rowers and a few machines she’d never seen before—for non-bipedal beings, maybe? Racks of free weights stood along one wall—secured against gravity loss—and lots of different benches. In the middle, a large, open space with firm but springy matting for group classes or gymnastics.

Saree looked up. The walls and ceiling were covered with climbing holds, bars, rings, ropes, and other apparatus. All of it seemed sturdy—professional-quality—if unimaginatively coated in black and light gray, with the occasional accent of white.

She pushed a bike but it didn’t move. Everything was secured and spotless—it smelled fresh too, a combination of citrus and sinus-clearing chemicals. Cleanliness was difficult to maintain in the recycled air of space travel. Somebody on Lightwave was serious about fitness. And maintenance. She surveyed the equipment again. She had a treadmill—she could run anytime. She had no idea what half these machines were, but the rower was obvious.

Sitting on the rower, she slipped her feet under the hold bar and the machine adjusted to fit her. Saree jolted in surprise. She gazed in wonder at the holo appearing around her. A full surround on a phys machine was big credit stuff. She skimmed through the pre-programmed options once, then a second time, slower, to take them all in.

Saree whistled. Very big credit stuff. She’d never seen these kinds of routines on a phys machine. Deep jungle, in quick but stealth mode, where your score depended on speed, stealth, and precision maneuvering. Open water mode, scored on distance while being tossed by waves ranging from nothing to three meters. Whitewater kayaking of varying levels, the judging on speed and survival or precision and speed.

She glared at the holo, the tension she’d shed returning with a vengeance. Training for these kinds of events was not normal.

Brushing away the surround holo, Saree surveyed the phys mod again, peering at the walls. There, under the plain beige coating, partially obscured by a climbing hold. She strode to the wall, scrutinizing the irregularity. Under the bland, but pristine light tan paint, was the slightly raised outline of a shield. Her stomach, filling with dread, sank to her feet. She subvocalized to Hal through her e-torc. “Hal, can you send a vid to my location? Or use my e-torc? There’s something I’d like you to image.”

“Certainly, Saree. What do you want imaged?”

“There was a shield on this wall—it’s been painted over. Can you analyze to see what it looks like under the coating?”

“I will attempt to, Saree. I will scan in multiple frequencies, and display the results for you in the shuttle. Please stay in place. I will let you know when I am finished, or if I require a better sensor.”

“Thank you, Hal.”

“You are welcome, Saree.” Fourteen seconds later, Hal said, “I have completed the scan. You may now move.”

Saree forced herself back to the rower—no matter how hard she stared, she couldn’t see through paint. If what she suspected was true, there was nothing she could do about it unless she wanted a long, boring trip back to Dronteim Station—and a loss of all those credits she’d transferred to Lightwave. And she’d definitely be in danger. She wasn’t in danger right now—there could be a perfectly innocent reason for the shield.

Maybe.

Setting her e-torc to alert her of any movement in the phys mod, she sat down on the rower and chose the extreme tide program. The workout would be stimulating and she’d be too busy to worry. “Hal, please let me know if anyone approaches.” Even if her e-torc didn’t work, Hal would.

“Of course, Saree.”

Twenty-three minutes later, she slid off the rower and collapsed on the flat, still floor. Sweat ran from every pore and her arms shook with exhaustion. Despite her best effort, her score was laughably low. The machine replicated the sight, sounds, and motions of the waves and pressures of tides, and the scent of seawater—the only thing missing was salt spray on her face. But she was producing plenty on her own. Good thing she wasn’t prone to motion sickness. She pulled the towel out of her bag and mopped her face.

After sitting longer than she cared to admit, she rolled over onto her knees, and levered herself up on wobbly arms and legs. She sighed and started stretching. She needed a little more recovery time before attempting to pick up her workout bag. She’d laugh about it, but it would take too much effort. Stretches complete, she hoisted her bag and tottered across the phys mod.

Tomorrow might be painful. Digging out an electrolyte tab, she popped it in the bev-tainer, sipping in the vain hope it would help her recover. The workout did achieve her objective; the stress and tension were gone. A clicking and whirring behind her made her spin—a cleaner bot trundled its way toward the puddle of sweat she’d left on the floor. Wow. They were serious about sanitation on Lightwave. Saree slogged to her shuttle.

Once locked inside, she double-checked the utility connections to the folder and entered the sani-mod. She sagged into the hot water pounding down, massaging her muscles and sluicing away the sweat. One of the big advantages of a fold transport was a real water shower. She couldn’t stay long, but it sure beat the sonic scrub-and-vac she’d do otherwise.

After enjoying an extravagant but within-limits shower, she contemplated her monotonous clothing selection. The only formal outfit she could wear was the long black tunic, with the traditional scholar’s cowl in the purple patterns of Centauri University, and matching leggings. The uniform would cement her scholar persona in everyone’s mind. She dressed quickly, finishing with the scarlet and dark blue patterned cords showing her area of study.

Reaching out, she stroked one hand down the soft, sensuous material hanging in the back of the closet, and sighed. She’d love to wear the beautiful, flowing dress of Tazan silk, dyed to match the glorious shaded colors of an Old Earth sunset. But wearing it would blow her cover—Scholars couldn’t afford Tazan silk. She snorted. She couldn’t either, but a lucky barter worked out well for everyone. Maybe someday she’d wear it somewhere other than alone in her shuttle.

She had no hope of ever wearing it for anyone else.

“Saree, you have six minutes before departure time. Would you like to see the image I’ve reconstructed for human vision capabilities?”

“Yes, Hal—please display it on the main screen.” Walking forward, she stopped, her heart crashing to the floor. Examining the giant stylized bird, all the colors of fire on a black background, she dropped her head, then the rest of her body, collapsing in the pilot’s seat. She’d been right, blast it all into a black hole. Right beyond her wildest nightmares.

Lightwave Fold Transport was a troop ship.

A Phalanx Eagle troop ship.

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It’s also super easy to give the gift of reading with StoryBundle, thanks to our gift cards – which allow you to send someone a code that they can redeem for any future StoryBundle bundle – and timed delivery, which allows you to control exactly when your recipient will get the gift of StoryBundle.

Why StoryBundle? Here are just a few benefits StoryBundle provides.

Get quality reads: We’ve chosen works from excellent authors to bundle together in one convenient package.Pay what you want (minimum $5):You decide how much these fantastic books are worth. If you can only spare a little, that’s fine! You’ll still get access to a batch of exceptional titles.Support authors who support DRM-free books: StoryBundle is a platform for authors to get exposure for their works, both for the titles featured in the bundle and for the rest of their catalog. Supporting authors who let you read their books on any device you want—restriction free—will show everyone there’s nothing wrong with ditching DRM.Give to worthy causes: Bundle buyers have a chance to donate a portion of their proceeds toAbleGamers!Receive extra books: If you beat the bonus price, you’ll get the bonus books!

https://storybundle.com/blog/spaceoperasisterhoodbundle/

StoryBundle was created to give a platform for independent authors to showcase their work, and a source of quality titles for thirsty readers. StoryBundle works with authors to create bundles of ebooks that can be purchased by readers at their desired price. Before starting StoryBundle, Founder Jason Chen covered technology and software as an editor for Gizmodo.com and Lifehacker.com.

For more information, visit our website at storybundle.com, tweet us at   @storybundle   and like us on   Facebook .

 

The post Space Opera Sisterhood! first appeared on AM Scott.

Five Year Publiversary!

I can’t believe it, but it’s been five years since I published Lightwave: Clocker!

I owe huge thanks to Lou Cadle and Eric Knight for their invaluable advice. Thanks to them, I had the first three novels written before I published book 1 and used Deranged Doctor Design for my covers–those two things are still paying dividends today!

Thank you to all of my wonderful readers–you ROCK! Without you, I wouldn’t be on this amazing journey today!