R.W.W. Greene's Blog, page 3

How Lurlene Learned to Love Herself

A little free fiction. Originally published in Stupefying Stories.

Lurlene had almost thrown it out when she hauled Buddy’s things to the curb after their last big fight and came closer yet when he called a year later to ask her to take him back and, by the way, bail him out of jail. 

The Super Dupe-R had been on the market for barely three months before the world’s governments had raced in with their lobbyists and laws. Buddy had found one, still in the box, during a demolition job when times were good and hauled it home. Lurlene might have been able to sell it years ago and buy her mother some of the pricey pain pills that were the only thing that gave her any peace at the end, but fear kept her from putting it on Craigslist. Possession of forbidden tech was a felony, and, although she’d cleaned up her act quite a bit since her bad old days, Lurlene couldn’t afford another one of those.

Now she stood over it and picked packing peanuts off the cheap, white plastic. It was a dead end, just like her. Lurlene's father left when she was a baby, and, even though Lurlene had come home to take care of her, her mother had died cursing her failure to measure up. She’d wasted far too much time on Buddy, who proved himself to be a first-class peckerwood. She was unloved, maybe even unlovable, and she’d had enough. Lurlene connected the Super Duper to her kitchen tap and poured the sacks of pre-mixed nutrients into the dispenser. She ran a sterile cotton swab around the inside of her mouth, dropped the swab into the analyzer, and pushed the big, red button.

Lurlene opened the hatch gingerly, half expecting to see one of the abominations the preachers had predicted -- two heads, maybe a tail and horns, heart pumping arrhythmically outside of its body.

A week later the “done” bell sounded. Lurlene opened the hatch gingerly, half expecting to see one of the abominations the preachers had predicted -- two heads, maybe a tail and horns, heart pumping arrhythmically outside of its body. Instead, the little girl inside was pink and perfect, biologically five-years-old with a preloaded, state-approved education.

The girl blinked as her eyes tested the light for the first time. “Are you my mommy?” Her accent was American standard, just like the actors on the soaps Lurlene watched every day. 

“I’m your mama,” Lurlene said. “And you’re my little girl.” 

The girls’s head had been pumped full of oxytocin to enhance the likelihood of a solid bond. She beamed like sunlight. “What are you going to call me, Mama?”

“Delia. That was my grandma’s name. Delia Lambeaux.”

Little Delia held her arms out. “Pick me up.”

Lurlene wrapped the girl in a warm, dry towel and they rocked in her mother’s chair until it was time to make lunch. She dressed Delia in hand-me-downs and made them each a fried bologna sandwich. 

“This is good, Mama!” Delia said. 

Lurlene smiled. “I made it just like my mama used to. She taught me everything I know about …” She thought for a moment. “About everything, I guess.”

Delia took a nap after lunch, waking in time to watch the soaps. Lurlene did her best to explain who all the characters were, and who loved whom and who hated what. The next morning, she made liver mush and grits, and they walked hand in hand to the trailer-park swimming pool. 

“I love it, Mama!” Delia splashed in the pool for hours, blow-up water wings forcing her into an awkward dog paddle.

Who is she?” a neighbor said, her soft arms rippling like vanilla pudding as she fanned herself with a magazine.

“My cousin’s daughter,” Lurlene said. “Daddy’s side. You never met her. She’s from up north.”

The neighbor nodded sagely. “She favors him.”

Lurlene and Delia stopped for a Moon Pie and an RC Cola on the way home, took a nap together, and spent the afternoon watching the soaps.

The machine’s instructions had warned that Delia’s growth hormones would take a while to stabilize, so Lurlene took it in stride when the girl was ready for her tenth birthday party a week later. Lurlene made the cake herself, and they ate half of it while sitting on the trailer’s small porch and watching insects fry on the zapper. 

“Where’s my daddy?” Delia said. 

Lurlene had avoided the word “clone” around the girl. “He died before you were born, baby girl.” She fought back tears so real she almost believed them. “He would have loved you so much.”

Delia’s bottom lip stuck out. “Why don’t we have any pictures?”

“Looking at them made me sad, so I burned them all up.” A character on their favorite soap had done something similar the week before, so the answer made sense, dramatically speaking.

“Did you love him?”

Lurlene pulled the girl into her arms and breathed in the clean smell of her hair. “Not as much as I love you.”

The next day they went to the pool to cool off. “Who is she?” said the soft-armed neighbor

“Another cousin,” Lurlene said. “T'other one's older sister.”

“Alike as two peas,” the neighbor said. The women around her nodded.

That weekend, Delia snuck out. Her body was fifteen, her features hinting at the good-looking woman she might grow into. Lurlene found her necking with a neighbor boy in a tree house. They had their hands up each other’s shirts and blinked wide-eyed and wild at the sudden illumination Lurlene cast into their secret space. The next night, Lurlene fired up her stun gun to rescue Delia from Woody Wilson, a middle-aged n’er-do-well who was plying the girl with booze and cigarettes. Lurlene left Woody unconscious, britches around his ankles, and took her daughter home to mend. She spent the night covering the girl’s forehead with cold washcloths and holding her hair back while she emptied her stomach in the trailer’s tiny bathroom.

“I love you, Mama,” Delia said, finally sober and pain-free enough to sleep.

Lurlene sat up all night to keep her nightmares away.

The next week, Delia ran away with an older boy. He had a car and rolled packs of cigarettes into his T-shirt sleeves. Delia was biologically seventeen years old and had “Wild Thing” tattooed on the back of her neck. They stole all the money Lurlene had in the trailer and left a cloud of dust in their wake. Lurlene was dry-eyed as she watched them drive away. She’d left home about the same age, about the same way. She cleaned the trailer from top to bottom, pushed the self-destruct button on the Super Dupe-R, and hauled the ashes to the curb. She watched the soaps alone and cried. The next day she got a postcard from Las Vegas.

Delia came back two weeks later. She was tall, skinny, twenty-something, and chain-smoking. Her halter top and cut-off shorts revealed several more visits to the tattoo parlor. “He left me,” she said. “Said I was getting too old for him.”

“They do that.” Lurlene grimaced. “You want something to eat?”

Delia turned and beckoned to the car parked on the roadway. The passenger door creaked open. “Come meet your grandma!”

Tears stacked up in Lurlene’s eyes as she watched the little girl skip across the hard, red dirt. The girl stopped about halfway and put her finger in her ear. 

“She’s come over shy,” Delia said. She patted her leg. “Get on over here!”

The little girl walked the rest of the way, giving Lurlene a good look at her. She was skinny, her hair needed a wash, and her elbows and knees were scabby and bruised. 

“She likes to run,” Delia said. “And I can’t keep her out of trees.”

“Come here and give me a hug.” Lurlene held her arms out. “I’m your grandma.”

The girl stopped just out of range. “You look like my mommy,” she said.

With little more than ten biological years separating them, Lurlene supposed she did. “Your mama was my little girl,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Ashley.” The girl kicked at a rock. “I’m five years old.”

Lurlene pulled her eyes off the little girl and found Delia’s face. “She’s beautiful.”

Delia nodded. “Lucky she don’t take after her daddy.  Guess I don’t, either.”

“You know about that.”

Delia scratched the faded needle scars inside her elbow. “Weren’t hard to figure out.”

“I always wanted a little girl, but I couldn’t have one.”

Delia lit another cigarette. “Doctor says my growth hormones have settled down. I'll age normal from here on out.” She nodded at the girl. “Hers are stable, too.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 “I’m here now. Don’t much matter how it happened.” She took a long drag of the cigarette and ground it out under her flip-flop. “Need you to watch her a while. I got into college upstate, and she needs to go to school. Make friends.”

A normal life. “I can do that.”

Delia dropped to her knees in front of her daughter and pulled her into a rough hug. “You stay with your grandma.”

“How long?” the girl said.

Delia wiped at her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Until I get back. I'll come visit.” She stood up. “You mind her, hear? Be a good girl.”

The girl nodded. 

Lurlene bent to take her granddaughter’s hand and with the other she took Delia’s. “I love both of you,” she said. “I’m proud of you, too.”

“I love you, too, Mama,” Delia said. “I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

“It don’t matter. Just make it count for something. Don’t be like me.”

Lurlene and the little girl watched Delia drive away. This time there were no clouds of dust.

“You hungry?” Lurlene said. 

The girl nodded.

“Let’s go inside and I’ll make you something. We can put the TV on. My soaps are about due.”

The little girl took her hand and followed her into the trailer. “Do you have any books?”

The soaps had never been much comfort anyway. Watching people whose lives were better and brighter than hers. “No, but there’s a library in town. Let’s eat then you and me will go see.”

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The Dumbest Firstest Primary

I’m working the polls for New Hampshire’s first-in-the-nation Presidential Primary today, and there’s not an ounce of me that wants to be there.

It’s not the hours, although they are brutal. They start at 5am and run fourteen turns of the glass (with an hour off for lunch) on a good day. Today, because of all the write-ins, will not be a good day. At 52, I am one of the younger poll workers, and as the day progresses I can see my co-workers whither.

Because of stupid games between the national and state parties, the front-runner on the Democrat side, Joe Biden, isn’t even on the ballot. This is where the write-ins will come from. There is literally a write-in campaign for the Anointed Octogenarian. “Write-In Biden.” The Democrats are not on my Good List.

Ron DeSantis bowed to the inevitable and dropped out of the race yesterday, leaving Nikki Haley and the Other Guy -- the twice-impeached, criminally liable, multi-indicted, insurrectionist conman -- leading the Republican ballot. An obscene amount of money is being spent on that race, which, barring prison (maybe!) is a foregone conclusion. The Republican Party is giddily goose-stepping toward a cliff and carrying the rest of us along.

We’re expecting a lower-than-usual turnout of Dems, because of the Stupid Game, and a higher-than-usual amount of Republicans, eager for another chance to kiss the ring of the Crook Who Would Be King. 

This is the Stupidest Primary. I don’t want to see it, much less be part of it. I usually enjoy working the polls. There’s camaraderie and a common, civic sense that we’re all in this together. I usually thank people for coming out and voting. 

But maybe not today. I can play dumb with the best of them, but maybe not this dumb. Maybe I’ll say, “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”

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Can I Kick the Habit of A Lifetime?

In 2023, for the first time ever, I kept track of the books I read during the year 

For convenience’s sake, I used Goodreads, and by Dec. 31, 2023, I’d copped to reading ninety-nine books over the past twelve months. I didn’t count manuscripts people asked me to read and, because I got bored, I forgot to add several titles from the last quarter of the year.

On Dec. 14, Goodreads sent me an email congratulating me for being in the “top 25% of readers” who bother to share their information with the site (and with Amazon, which owns it). Of course, I had it framed. Just kidding.

2023 was a  typical year for me, reading-wise. I read for pleasure, mostly, sometimes for specific knowledge or research. I’m not overly picky about what I read. If I see it, and it looks interesting, I’ll probably pick it up. I very rarely DNF.

It’s a habit I formed early in my life. 

Now, I’m trying to break it. In 2024, I will read only twenty-four books. 

My spouse doesn’t think I can do it, and frankly I’m not sure, either. Reading is what I do. It’s likely the only thing I could medal in. But I’m going to try. Twenty-four books, two books a month. 

A caveat: I will not count books I might be asked to blurb or manuscripts I’m asked to read. I also will not count DNFs, and I will not try to cheese my way into reading more by not finishing author’s notes, etc. Audio books, if any, will count.

I have not decided if this will be an exercise in ‘close’ or ‘deep’ reading. I might annotate or write about what I read, or I might not. Mostly, I’m curious what breaking the habit will do to my brain. (For a hot second, I was tempted to try not reading any books at all, but that was madness!)

Will reading less make me appreciate what I read more? Will I stumble into new realms of understanding and loving prose? Might I simply lose my mind? All things are possible.

I do vow here, not to replace reading with more gaming or television. I may write more. Maybe I’ll get serious (again) about learning to play guitar. I could start a sketchbook or keep a fitness journal. Perhaps I’ll try stop-motion animation again. Maybe I’ll take a class.

It will be interesting, or it will be supremely boring. Time will tell.

What do you think will happen? Has anyone tried something like this? Do you have any tips or warnings? 

NEWS: I’m THIS close to finishing my new book, a thrillerish sci-fi thing, and I’ll be sending it off to my agent in a week or so. I’ve signed up for CapriCon in early February and after that I’m Boskone-bound.

If you want to help a brother out, and you like my books, you could drop a review in one of the usual places. It makes the various algorithms happy and keeps my stuff in the mix. If you’ve not read a book by R.W.W. Greene, here’s a good place to find one. (Your local independent bookstore is even better!)

Happy New Year, friends. Until there is peace, 

Rob

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"Nomad Century"

“Are you seriously talking about a different book at your book launch?”

Yeah, seriously. It’s likely not something my agent and publicist would recommend, but I had to bring up my new favorite the other day in front of my captive audience. I even purchased two additional copies of the thing at the bookstore (Gibson’s in Concord, NH) that hosted my launch.

The book’s title is Nomad Century: How Climate Migration Will Reshape Our World. The author is Gaia Vince. The hardcover came out in 2022, but the paperback emerged a year later, just in time for me to find it at Ballast Books in Bremerton, Wash. when I was on that side of the country for a wedding. It’s nonfiction.

The predictions this well-researched book makes are dire. Billions-with-a-B climate-change refugees by 2050. Billions more by century’s end. Rising temperatures that maybe-could-be-probably-won’t be caught in time. Shortages. Starvation. Heatstroke. Death.

It gave me hope. We have always survived by moving to safer harbors, the book says. This time will be no different. And if we’re smart about it, we might do more than survive. We might thrive. If we’re really clever, it might only be a temporary retreat until the world heals. 

New cities in the north. Global citizenship. A UN migration plan with teeth. A recognition that bodies, minds, and labor are our most important resource. A plan grander than any plan we’ve ever made. A plan for the entire planet. Vince makes it all sound possible, and I sorely need that.

I have three copies of Nomad Century now -- one for me, two to pass on. One will go to a pal, a leader type who might be interested. The other I think I’ll send to the next governor of our state (or at least to the woman I hope will get the job). All my elected reps should get one. All yours, too. 

One for Biden. 

I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that everyone read this book. 

And then act on it.

NEWS: I had a novel come out recently. It’s called Earth Retrograde, and people seem to be liking it. 

I sign a copy of my own book at Gibson’s Bookstore in Concord, NH the other day.

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Sans Ants

— A very short story, originally published, New Myths.com, June 2014

“Is that wind too much on you? I can adjust it.”

I pulled the grass stem out of my mouth and flicked it toward the stream. The breeze dropped it about a meter short of the water. I smiled at her. “It’s perfect.”

Genni blushed. “I’m glad you like it. It’s not a full custom, but I spent a long time modifying it. What do you want to do today?”

I stretched out on the picnic blanket. “I just want to enjoy it, and you, and much as possible.”

The resolution was fantastic, and somehow, she’d programmed my avatar to produce goosebumps when the wind tickled my neck. They didn’t feel exactly right, but it was close. It was incredible considering Genni had never had a goosebump.

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

I plucked another grass stem and put it between my teeth. The plant tasted real, too, not that I’d had any more experience with grass than Genni had with skin. “It’s amazing.” I rolled over to see her face. She was blond today, with a pointed chin and green eyes. “You’re amazing.”

I leaned closer and kissed her on her forehead and lips. The kiss felt perfect to me. A lot of clock hours had gone into the creation of the subroutine, along with hundreds of years of adjustments.

“Do you have to go?” she said. 

“You know I do. It’s what we came here for.”

“You act like you don’t even care.”

 Genni’s family had traveled just as far as mine had, but she’d never leave the ship. She couldn’t. She was an Artifact. Her whole existence depended on the ship’s mainframe. She might live forever, but she’d never touch the surface of the planet below. “You can’t go. I can’t stay,” I said. “We knew that when we started this.”

She swallowed and nodded tightly. “I just didn’t think it would come so soon.”

I swatted her on the butt. “Enough. We have weeks, yet.”

Weeks on the mainframe, but only a day for my real body back in my capsule. In twenty-five hours I’d be on the shuttle, headed for the surface to start a new human colony.

The sky darkened. “It’s not enough time, and you know it,” Genni said. “You log out for a work shift, and it feels like you’re gone for a month! What am I supposed to do?”

“It’s out of my control,” I said. “We haven’t been traveling for eighty years so that I can stay on the ship! We have a mission.”

Thunder boomed, and the gentle breeze turned hard and cold. “The mission!” Genni said. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

Hailstones stung my skin. “Genni, baby, you mean everything to me, but …”

The stream froze solid with a sharp crack. “You’re a liar!” Genni said. “After all I’ve done …” The grass under me withered and died. “Everything you made me do …”

“Genni. Genni, please calm down.” The ground burst open in a fountain of molten rock. “Screw it,” I said. “Pause execution. Repeat. Pause execution.”

The program froze.

“Drop the jealousy and possessiveness algorithms by forty percent and restore to …” I looked at my watch. “... three minutes ago.”

I blinked.

“Is that wind too much on you? I can adjust it.”

I pulled the grass stem out of my mouth and flicked it toward the stream. I smiled at her. “It’s perfect.”

Genni blushed. “I’m glad you like it. It’s not a full custom, but I spent a long time modifying it. What do you want to do today?”

I considered the possibilities. “Everything.”

the end

A little blast from the past today. I wrote it to try out some ideas for the sequel of a book I drafted but never finished. The idea was that, at the conclusion of a generation ship’s voyage, not everyone would want to get off the boat. Anyway…

THE NEWS: Earth Retrograde continues to do its thing, with reviews here and here. (Many thanks for those, by the way.) My next event, likely my only New Hampshire event, is set for 6:30pm Thursday, Nov. 16 at Gibson’s Bookstore in Concord. NH. I need to figure out refreshments, but there will be some.

In other news, we’re skating close to the end of the college semester, which gives me hope that I can get a good draft of the New Thing to my agent by the end of December. It’s nice to have a New Thing. It’s even nicer to have a New Thing and Something Fun to work on after that!

Keep stomping. -rob

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Calling All Boston-Area Sci-Fi Fans

Friends, last week’s launch of Earth Retrograde, the final chapter of The First Planets duology, went off without a hitch. Very early on launch day, one of my former students shared a picture she took at Dubray Books in Galway, Ireland. Other reports, from closer by and further afield followed suit.

Launching a book is a bit like bowling. Once the ball leaves your hand, no amount of wishing, hoping, or contorting can alter its path. It’s gonna go where it’s gonna go, no matter how hard you dance around and flap your arms.

But still we try, with events like the one upcoming. 6:30pm Thursday, Nov. 2, at Pandemonium Books & Games in Cambridge, Mass. Admission is $5 (or $18.99 if you want to buy the book there), and you shall be treated to a reading and chat by yours truly in one of the best bookstores in the Boston area.

Advance registration is required here. I’d love to see all or some of y’all there. There are plenty of good restaurants in the area if you want to make a night of it.

Thanks for all. -Rob

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Jet Carson & the Climate Machine

Happy Tuesday!

I finished the first draft of a new novel a few days ago, so while that’s cooling, I’m playing around with a few ideas. The one I’m sharing with you today came from Robert Junker, a gentleman I follow on various social media. He asked me if I had any Jet Carson (an important side character in “Mercury Rising”) short stories lying around.

Now, I’ve had a lot of thoughts about expansions of The First Planets universe, but not that one. I responded thusly:

And couldn’t stop thinking about it. And, so, I started something, an excerpt of which is printed below.

Jet Carson & the Climate Machine, 1957 (excerpt):

Dr Bijay “Banjo” Banerjee took off his glasses. “We have a problem, Captain.”

Captain Jet Carson leaned against the door frame he’d come partway through. “Didn’t think you’d called me down to talk about the weather, Banjo.”

“That is where you are wrong, my friend.” Banjo gestured to a seat on the other side of his desk. “Tea?”

“I brought my own.” Jet put a stained coffee mug on the desktop and claimed a chair.

Banjo glanced at the darkness inside the cup and pulled a face. Jet liked his coffee strong enough to power a docking thruster and so dark it trapped light. “Count Czar is back.”

Jet grunted. “That didn’t take long.”

“The Count has plans within plans. It’s possible the Callisto matter was just a distraction.”

“Heck of a distraction. Took two fighter wings and the Admiral’s flagship to chase him out of there.”

“Even so.” Banjo tented his fingers on his desk. “The speed at which he returned suggests he had this plan in the works long before then.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s built a machine that he claims can raise the average temperature on Earth by three degrees in a single year.”

Jet took a mouthful of coffee. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“You’ve not seen the projections. How does a worldwide fifty-foot sea-level rise sound?”

“Pretty bad.”

Banjo ticked off troubles on his fingers. “Climate change at a speed natural evolution cannot possibly keep up with. The desertification of half the continental United States. Millions upon millions of desperate refugees from all over the planet looking for asylum. Super storms and broken weather patterns. Deadly heat events and domes. Polar vortexes.” He lowered his hands to the desk. “I could go on.”

“I get the picture, doc.” Jet rubbed his chin. It was just past two, but he stubbled up quick. “What’s he want?”

“A sum of money equivalent to three-years’ worth of the gross national products of the US, Europe, China, and the Soviet Union.”

“I’m guessing that’s a lot.” Jet’s chair squeaked. “Where’s he been since Calisto?

“The Arctic, apparently.” Banjo lit his pipe. “We haven’t found the base, but it makes sense. His family fled there just before the Russian Revolution in ’17.”

“Little before my time.” Jet smirked. “From an ice moon to the Arctic. You figure he’s set up on another popsicle somewhere? Pluto?”

“Probably not. Too far out.

“Could be anywhere then. The Moon’s got fifteen million square miles of its own. Still plenty of caves and cracks we haven’t laid eyes on.”

“It’s Mars.” Banjo tossed a folder onto the desk. “We have a mission for you, Jet. You’re not going to like it, and you’re going to like who you’re working with even less.”

Jet picked up the folder, opened it to the first print out. “Well, heck.”

 Jet paced angrily in their small living room. “We’re technically at war with these guys. How am I supposed to work with them?”

“You could resign in protest,” said Betty Carson, Jet’s wife of ten years. “Max Martinez would love to hire you as a pilot on one of his Moon liners.”

“Ha! Can you imagine me flying one of those whales back and forth all day?”

 “Easily.” Her mouth firmed. “Then you’d be home on the weekends, and we could get a good deal on a lunar cruise.”

“Betts.” He sat next to her on the couch and took her hands. “Betts, you knew what you were getting into when we tied the knot.”

“Maybe I’ve gotten tired of seeing you put your life on the line.”

 “You take on the most dangerous people in the city every day, Ms District Attorney!” He laughed. “I don’t see you batting an eye over that.”

“It’s not the same.” She huffed. “No one’s trying to blow me up in court.” A thin smile found her lips. “At least not usually.”

“I’m going to spend the next two weeks bored and missing you. Then there’ll be a day or two of light danger, followed by another two weeks of sitting around.” He lifted her hands to his lips. “Most of that time, I’ll be safer than you are down here. At least in space I don’t have to worry about bad drivers or getting hit by lightning.”

“No, you just have to worry about working with Yuri Grishuk, the Soviet Ace. How many fliers has he killed again?”

“Most of those were Nazis, dear. I shot down my share of them, too.”

“Still. What are they thinking sending you to Mars alone with him?”

“They’re thinking Count Czar is a bigger threat.” He kissed her mouth. “And I agree with them.”

Made with HotPot.AI

The next day Jet flew his long-range fighter, the Victory, to Paris, France, neutral ground for his first meeting with Yuri Grishuk. He landed at the American base outside the city and swapped his flight suit for something more appropriate for nightlife in the City of Lights.

“Can I get a ride in?”

The leader of the ground crew, a brawny fellow named Armaund Moreau, pointed with his cigarette. “You can sign out a Vespa at the gate, no trouble.”

The little scooter didn’t have the horsepower of Jet’s motorcycle back home, but it was perfect for the narrow streets of the old city. Jet had a little time to kill so he took the scenic route, checking out a few spots he remembered from the war and his honeymoon some years later.  Need to get Betts back here. She’s right; we both deserve a break.

Jett parked the Vespa outside the wine bar he’d been directed to and ducked inside the smoky interior. The table was in the rear. Grishuk was seated there with another man, their backs against the wall, drinking wine and smoking slim cigarettes.

“Commander Grishuk.” He dipped his head, never taking his eyes off the man.

Grishuk and the other man rose. “Captain Carson. I’ve heard so much about you.” Grishuk extended his hand.

The Soviet Ace was smaller than Jet had expected, compact in a way that suggested precision and speed. He shook the proffered hand. “Nice place.”

“We come here whenever we can.” He gestured to the other man. “This is my husband Afanazy Affek.”

Jet shook Afanazy’s hand, too. “I didn’t realize Soviet law allowed it.”

“It’s allowed, but not encouraged.” Afanazy smiled. “We seldom go out in public together in Moscow, so our little trips to Paris are a treat.”

“Please, sit.” Yuri gestured at the chairs opposite. “Wine?”

“Sure.” Jett examined the bottle. “I like red.”

The End (for now)

Maybe this will come to something, maybe it won’t. I’ve three or four full drafts in the drawer now, along with a few partials. I like to strike where the iron is hottest, but some Jet Carson shorts or novelettes might be fun. What do you think?

NEWS: I’m counting down the days (six!) until Earth Retrograde (the sequel to Mercury Rising) springs forth. Early reviews are still looking good, and there are two book events scheduled thus far – 6:30pm Nov. 2 at Pandemonium Books & Games in Cambridge, MA and 6:30pm Nov. 16, at Gibson’s Bookstore in Concord, NH. I’ll also be doing a signing event at World Fantasy Con in Kansas City, MO, but I don’t have much information on that, yet.

Paul Semel interviewed me about The First Planets duology here (and I am grateful).

How about a book giveaway? Tell ya what, the first five people who comment on this post with the word “rutabaga” will get a free e-copy of Mercury Rising to love (and hopefully review).

Currently reading:

Lessons in Bird Watching by Honey Watson.

Listening to:

Beyond Mere Politeness: The Art of True Civility

“Take a Walk on the Wild Side” (Cover)

That’s it, friends. In spite of it all, try to walk in beauty. -Rob

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twenty-one days until book

I woke up this morning and counted the days. Oof … only twenty and a wakeup until the release of Earth Retrograde, the second and final installment of The First Planets duology.

Early reviews are coming in, and I’m feeling pretty good about them:

“You will struggle to find a better literary Sci-Fi embodiment of the space girl lofi hiphop videos on YouTube than Mercury Rising and Earth Retrograde . There is no drawback to this duology. No downside. Greene nailed it.”

In the first book, Mercury Rising, we met Brooklyn Lamontagne, a petty criminal working to pay his (and his mom’s) rent in 1976 New York — but not the one you know. See, in Brooklyn’s world, Oppenheimer put his talents into something constructive and came up with an engine that put us on the moon in the early 1950s. Everything was going swell until the aliens showed up in 1961 and started wrecking things. Brooklyn — through no plan of his own, of course — ends up joining the Earth Orbital Forces and shipping out to fight the extraterrestrial menace.

Publishers Weekly called Mercury Rising a “genre-bending romp,” and who am I to argue?

You can only see the whole picture if you have both.

The new book fast-forwards to 1999, and things are … different. I don’t want to say too much more than that. One Goodreads reviewer wrote, “The odds are against him but Greene’s belief in humanity (however alien the form it comes in) shines through and Brooklyn is a character that will stay with me for his efforts alone.” I won’t debate that, either.

If you missed out on Mercury Rising, it’s still available in the shops and, as I write this, on discount ($2.99) as an e-book via Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Earth Retrograde comes out Oct. 24 (two days before my birthday!), and it’s available for preorder everywhere you might shop for books. If you like physical copies, I’d prefer you bought it from your local independent bookstore or Bookshop.org. You can also get Mercury Rising as an audio book, and I hear the Earth Retrograde audio is in the works.

If you’re planning to attend World Fantasy Con in Kansas City, I’ll be there to sign books, talk speculative fiction, and otherwise be charming and interesting. Folks in the Cambridge/Boston area can find me at a ticketed event Nov. 2, courtesy of the fine folks at Pandemonium Books & Games, where I will read from the new book and, again, do my best to be charming and interesting. Later in the month, I’ll be at Gibson’s Bookstore in Concord, NH for a similar thing, but that date is not yet set in stone nor electrons. I’ll announce any additional events and sightings through the usual methods.

Whew! I’m grateful to Angry Robot Books for letting me get the entire story out, grateful to the folks who took time to review and otherwise promote the thing, and beholden to the many fine people who reached for their wallets and bought the books. Publishing is a strange business, but it all comes down to the story. I hope you like this one. -Rob

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At the Polls

Not much of an update, but don't neglect your local elections and primaries. They make a vast difference in your life.

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The Biggest Mistake George Lucas Ever Made

MILD, VERY GENERAL SPOILERS EXCEPT FOR ONE BIG ONE ABOUT THE THIRD SEASON OF THE MANDALORIAN.

So, I’m not talking about Jar Jar here, or any of the other vaguely and not-so vaguely racist alien characters from the prequels. I’m talking about George Lucas’s attempt to turn a perfectly good Space Fantasy into poorly considered Science Fiction by bringing midi-chlorians into it. With their addition, the Force stopped being this big mystical, magical thing. It became quantifiable. Measurable. Totes understandable. Science-ish.

From Wookeepedia: Midi-chlorians were microscopic, intelligent life forms that originated from the foundation of life in the center of the galaxy and ultimately resided within the cells of all living organisms, thereby forming a symbiotic relationship with their hosts. … The more of these tiny organisms a being possessed, the greater potential for power in the force a being had.

Suddenly, getting strong had nothing to do with how hard a Padawan worked. If they didn’t have the m-count, they’d always be backbench cannon fodder when the Sith came knocking. The big boys and girls were born with it. (I can imagine a gruff, drill-sergeant-type Jedi talking to an upstart Padawan: “You think you can take me on, kid? You ain’t got the midi-c’s for it.”)

Maybe George tossed the midi-chlorians in there so the audience (who already knew little Ani Skywalker would grow up to be a bad-ass) had quick proof that only Grand Jedi Master Yoda had better Force chops than the droid-building kid from Tatooine. But it was a bad move, story-wise, opening the door to plots about blood doping, Force steroids, cannibal Sith, used-menstrual-pad and band-aid theft, and the kidnapping of a fifty-year-old baby in order to drain off his blood to make an army of Force-powered clones of a 65-year-old Giancarlo Esposito. (Only one of those was canon.)

Fortunately, the solution to the problem is baked right into the Original Recipe Star Wars Universe. 

Star Wars is blatantly anti-science. Sure, there are plenty of spaceships, hyperdrives, helpful droids, and blasters, but the truly good and powerful lay those aside in favor of comfortable robes, forest canopies, quiet temples, meditation, and the consumption of human flesh (see Ewoks). They feel for answers, they don’t get out the test tubes.

Star Wars heroes leave the hacking, puzzle solving, military analysis, and medicine to droids, and rarely, if ever, science their way out of a problem. (Wanna bet that even the worst Star Trek crew would have scanned for lifeforms before flying into a warm, moist asteroid cave? Would have at least scanned for breathable atmosphere before running outside the ship wearing only facemasks?)

Science-wise, the Republic (New and Old) and the Jedi are largely stagnant. They can’t be bothered to find a cure for Sudden Postpartum Sadness Death and I-Forgot-the Droids Dementia among aged Jedi. The only scientific advancement in the canon universe comes from the villains, who are only using it to build a better Death Star, clone the Emperor, or replicate themselves (as 65-year-olds). The bad guys are pretty dumb, but the good guys are willfully ignorant. 

So here’s the solution to George’s Big Mistake (and admittedly I’m thinking about this because I’m watching Ahsoka and creator Dave Filoni also seems to be backpedaling on it a bit):

The Jedi have the causal relationship wrong. They discovered, probably by accident, that powerful Jedi have lots of midi-chlorians… and left it at that. Being bad at science they never tested the ‘greater potential for power’ theory, nor did they publish it in a respectable, peer-reviewed journal. The truth is, midi-chlorians are super attracted to folks who use the Force well, and like purrgil (Force-sensitive space whales that can tunnel through hyperspace) and Loth wolves (Force-sensitive canines that can make short hyperspace jumps through planets) can make short hyperspace jumps from mere muggles and into the strong Force users they are attracted to. Midi-chlorians are a harmless infestation.

Qui-Gon put the cart before the horse … again. And with the ‘greater potential’ theory debunked, the Force can go back to being mystical and Star Wars can sit comfortably as a total Space Fantasy.

The End

(Almost. I’m sure I’m not the first one to think of this, but like I said, Ahsoka, and I’m not a great sleeper. And, yes, I am a Star Wars enjoyer of many, many years, and I’ve consumed most of the things. )

(Alright, here’s another thing. The human-looking people in Star Wars lived a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Despite their phenotype, they are not human. Which maybe is how they could run into a living space cave with only facemasks, or have the reflexes for dogfights at near lightspeed, or … Whatever.)

NEWS: I recently returned from a cross-USA road trip which included pilgrimages to Uncle Hugo’s Science Fiction Bookstore and Dream Haven Books (both in Minneapolis, Minnesota).

Meanwhile, Earth Retrograde, the sequel to 2022’s Mercury Rising, is out next month from Angry Robot Books. There’s a pre-order deal for the thing should you have a Barnes & Noble membership. It starts Sept. 6 and runs through Sept. 8.

That’s it from this side of things. Have a great day. -rob

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