RIDING SHOTGUN by Claudia Dante

Sonny Goss has everything going for him. He's still not 22 years old, and already he's a rising star in red-hot niche movies, and working for an ambitious director-producer. Paul Jordan's films are still in the zone of soft-core, but Paul has big plans to evolve into 'erotic fantasy' catering to the gay DVD market. His company -- Take A Chance Pictures -- is expanding fast, and his current project, Howl of the Black Wolf, is the biggest, most expensive movie yet to issue on his label. Sonny Goss has the starring role of saddletramp and gunfighter, Matt Ridley, who's in love with a shapeshifting young shaman, John Black Wolf.

Sonny's starting to get noticed, and the future looks bright ... save for one thing. He's alone, and he wants so much more than one night stands with beautiful guys he meets 'playing cowboy' in a notorious LA club know as The Corral. It can be a dangerous place to play, but Sonny turns on to the 'midnight cowboy' fantasy, even while he envies his friend, gorgeous First Nations actor Jeff Lucas, who's costarring with him in the gay Western that's tipped to kickstart a whole new genre.

The incredible fantasy of John Black Wolf haunts Sonny -- as does Jeff. But Jeff is secure in a happy, settled relationship, leaving Sonny stranded and falling back on The Corral, where he goes just to watch, to let off steam. The fantasy is piquant, powerful.

Meanwhile, there's a very real half-wolf called Jason ... a soundstage at Universal where the Western action is rather more intimate than the usual spurs'n'saddles ... and there's a stalker menacing Sonny. Crazed fan, or vigilante on a personal quest against out gay actors working in fringe movies...? Sonny's starting to run scared, and calls his producer. Paul Jordan has the reputation of a 'fixer,' and he knows everybody in the gay side of the industry...

Enter Jim Colby -- ex-cop turned Hollywood P.I., who walks into Sonny's life as a hired gun, a bodyguard, and turns his world upside down, inside out. Jim is Sonny's dream, walking on two legs ... but Jim is hiding a secret of his own, and it won't take Sonny long to find out about it. It's fireworks between them from the first moment: the cowboy fantasy is about to become a sizzling, delicious reality, and for Sonny, nothing will ever be the same. Jim Colby is about to take him places he only daydreamed about.

He's about to get what he's wished for ... with interest!

ISBN: 978-0-9872328-2-3
Publisher: DreamCraft
Length: 42,000 words
Format: PDF, Epub, Kindle
Heat rating: 4
Price: $3.99
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Read an excerpt

Chapter One

Hot water felt so good after a day in the dust and heat. Sonny Goss turned, let it pour over his back and ass while he listened for the phone. He spread his legs, leaned his palms on the shower glass, let the water do wonderful things to every nerve ending in the center of him. The flood of sensation made him think of the night ahead. From the shower, he could see the foot of his bed, and the clothes laid out there.

Crisp black denim waited for him, and hand-tooled Lucchese boots, a black linen shirt, bone-bead belt and Diamond Jim Stetson -- all genuine, no cheap knockoffs. The ensemble had set him back a cool grand, with the diamond studs in his lobes and the Ambre Topkapi that would be shimmering on his skin -- hot, sweat-slick and lustrous with pheromones by midnight.

The best thing about being Sonny Goss was, he could afford it all -- and the cherry red '71 Mustang Mach 1 in the garage under the apartment building. Often, he had to pinch himself, make sure he was still awake, not dreaming while he killed time, crashed on a friend's couch, where he had been just twenty months ago.

A chance audition changed everything. The part had looked bad, but he was desperate enough after six months on Nick's couch, eating noodles three times a day, to go read for anything. He was the thirteenth guy in line, and there were twelve chairs.

He sat on the floor, read an old car magazine, and by the time he made it into the hot, dark little cubbyhole they were using for an audition studio, he could not have cared less about actually getting the part.

Maybe that was what Paul Jordan was looking for -- he saw the character of Tommy Hathaway, in Dirtwater Duke, as a badass with attitude to match. A twenty-year-old drifter with a smart mouth, a fast gun, and a taste for ripe young cowboys who very soon learned what the words 'hard ridden' really meant.

The movie was crap, but as Paul predicted, it made money. Sonny liked to think he owned an 'ear' for dialog, and Paul Jordan might have been a good director with a talent for raising movie bucks from starry-eyed wannabe investors in California's gay community, but he was a lousy writer. So Sonny adlibbed most of the words coming out of Tommy Hathaway's mouth, and after that, let his body do the talking for him.

Twenty months later, he had eight movies to his credit -- two had been screened on Starz, one was top-selling on the gay DVD list, and Sonny Goss's face was looking out of posters and video trailers on forty websites. He had been featured in The Advocate, and here! was getting interested.

He looked up into the mirror opposite the shower and gave himself a grin. Even to his own eyes, it looked like a damned smug grin. Then again, he had a reason to be smug. He had done it. He had gone from being the gay kid kicked out by his father for bringing home a boyfriend and daring to fuck in the sanctuary of his own room, to being the poster boy for Take a Chance, Paul Jordan's company.

They were filming on a stage at Universal this week, headed out on location in another four days. Sonny could not wait to get out of the soundstage, back into the open air. One corner of the vast area was currently set up as the barn, for the night scene where one of the movie's eight sex scenes was being filmed.

The set was closed, and guarded to keep out visitors. Yesterday, the same space had been set up as the interior of the cabin belonging to John Black Wolf, with the big brass bed and the quilt made of patches of every color of rabbit skin. Wrestling there with Jeff Lucas, who was playing John, was fun. Understatement, Sonny thought as he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

He grabbed for a towel, flicked off the bathroom lights and headed into the bedroom, where the lamps were on, illuminating the room in a dull gold. Jeff was Canadian, half Native, from someplace in upstate Ontario. He was 22, a year older than Sonny, with long limbs and dark eyes, and hair so long, he could almost sit on it. He was perfect for the part of John Black Wolf, and Paul Jordan was gambling on the chemistry between him and Sonny.

Howl of the Black Wolf was the most expensive movie Take a Chance had ever produced. This one had horses; it had location filming, and two actual stunts -- as distinct from the sex scenes, Sonny thought with a chuckle while he toweled down -- as well as fourteen digital special effects shots, which were being done by a studio in Malaysia.



That handful of shots was costing more than the rest of the movie combined, and Paul was shitting bricks over them. He knew they, plus the stunts and location work, would make the difference between Howl being just another glossy gay soft-core flick, and a real movie with a fantasy twist.

Sonny had fallen in love with the project as soon as he read the script, even though Paul's dialog was as crappy as usual, and would have to be rewritten on the set, probably with three minutes left before shooting started. The dialog in Paul Jordan's movies was the least important element. The sex was usually the first thing anyone looked at -- 'tastefully explicit gay love scenes,' as Paul called them.

But Howl was more than soft-core. John Black Wolf was a skinwalker. He shifted shape between human hunk -- a six foot two, broad-shouldered young stallion who had had Sonny drooling since day one -- to a big black wolf with blue eyes and fangs the size of steak knives. The digital effects shots were essential -- these days, nobody would buy simple cross-fades or stop-motion animation. Jeff Lucas had to really turn into the wolf right before the eyes, and take the audience's breath away.

Actually, Jeff was changing into a wolf-cross called Jason. The animal trainer was another Canadian, Cooper Barlowe from Vancouver. He had actually bred Jason, who was half timber wolf, half Belgian Shepherd, black as midnight, with the bluest eyes Sonny had ever seen.

Jeff had already filmed one half of the scene, three days before. He stood under blue lights, made to simulate moonlight, and tore off his clothes. Naked, glorious, from the great slabs of his pecs to the cock and balls that hung like rich fruit between the big, football player thighs -- he spread his arms and legs and arched his back -- and froze right there. A Malaysian studio called Hydraulic Frog (where the hell did they get these names, Sonny wondered) was doing the 'bridge' between the human end of the shot and the other, wolven, end.

Cooper had brought in Jason, and the wolf was perfectly behaved. He stood on his mark while the lights were reset, then looked right at his handler and, on cue, like a proper actor, bared his huge fangs, threw back his head and howled.

The sound made Sonny's hair stand on end. Like Paul, he was dying to see the finished scene, where Jeff ripped off his clothes (the rushes of that part of the scene gave Sonny a huge boner, so it was a safe bet, this part of Howl was going to become an Internet legend) and morphed into Jason, howling at the moon, before he loped up to the camera and away out of frame.

It was the first time Sonny had ever been enthusiastic about a project he was filming. The others were all 'work.' Each low budget job was shot in a week or two, usually using a warehouse in Anaheim as a 'stage,' and they were mostly about a group of great looking young guys having a lot of sex. Paul wrote them, as well as producing and directing -- and what sent the Take a Chance movies apart from the bulk of soft-core was that Paul could usually find a really good excuse for the sex scenes.

Sometimes there was a thread of unrequited love, or it might be a forfeit for unpayable gambling debts, or a joke being played on a straight dude who rapidly discovered that he was nowhere near as straight as he had thought he was. And when the guys got down to business, it was always shot with taste and style. That was Paul Jordan's magic.

Howl of the Black Wolf had just as much sex, but a whole lot more story, and Sonny was excited to be heading out on location Tuesday morning. The company would be in a flyspeck town in northern California called Weott, on the Redwood Highway east of Avenue of the Giants.

The scenery was guaranteed to be superb. Four trained horses were coming down by truck from Oregon. Jason would be filmed loping through the redwoods in shots processed later to look like moonlight. And Jeff and Sonny would get naked and make out in places that would render the video sex shiveringly exotic.

Mostly dry now, he threw the towel back in the general direction of the bathroom. He was still waiting for the phone -- it was on the chest by the bed, mocking him with silence. Not even a text. Sonny gave it a glare, but he was not surprised. He had left voicemail for Jeff an hour before, when he got home.

'Hey, man, you want to get out tonight? Thank God it's Friday, or whatever? I'm going to The Corral, if you're interested. Call me, okay?"

Three or four times a month, Fridays or Saturdays, Sonny went to The Corral. The nights all started like this, with the daylight faded to colors of twilight and the sounds of evening traffic coming in through the open windows with the view of rooftops and dusty palm trees. LA smog would be hanging over the horizon like a brown pall in the sunset. He would shave, shower, grab a snack, change into the kind of threads that would get him through the door at The Corral --

Get him into the basement, where it all happened, much later, when the dancers were drifting on out in couples and trios and quads. The bouncers would be on duty at the side door in the muck and dark of the alley, and the real action would be starting. The Corral was aptly named, and just thinking about it gave Sonny an icy-hot thrill, a shiver down his spine.

He was a mere spectator, but part of the thrill was knowing, he could be in it. He could be a player, in there with the rest of them. One day; one night. Not today, but one day.

Maybe Jeff knew about The Corral -- it was no secret -- and maybe it was not his scene. Sonny might have been disappointed, but he was not surprised. Jeff had a lover stashed someplace in Toronto, a real estate broker who was always texting, calling, emailing, as if he did not trust Jeff not to sleep around while he was out here. Sonny had never even heard the guy's name, but the guy need not have worried. Jeff Lucas got a lot of offers, but he never accepted them. Not yet, anyway. He was as faithful as John Black Wolf was to his on-screen lover, Matt Rigley.

Sonny played Matt Ridley with a drawl, skin-tight blue denims, a Winchester over one shoulder, and a mouth always hungry to go down on John ... and he envied Matt, who was a fictional character right out of the head of Paul Jordan. Matt had the one thing Sonny had never had.

The worst thing about being Sonny Goss? Not being able to connect. There was always plenty of sex -- never any shortage of offers and, unlike Jeff, he never hesitated to take them. But the next morning was all about Pop-Tarts and coffee like black paint, and a door closing behind a guy who never looked as good in the morning light as he had at midnight or two in the AM ... and who always walked away.

He sighed, and gave himself another look in the mirror. A hard look. Naked. He looked good, and he knew he did, with long legs, hard-worked muscles, dark brown hair and eyes, from his Italian grandmother, smooth chest that barely even needed to be shaved, and a cock that was thick and golden when it was resting, and stood s good eight inches when it was interested. His skin was tanned evenly, with just the pale strip around his hips of the Speedos line. His hair was thick and long -- Paul liked it that way; he knew what suited Sonny, and the character of Matt Ridley.

The reviewers on Dirtwater Duke had called him 'surreal as an evil angel, with innocent eyes and wicked mouth.' Sonny pouted at himself, examined his shave and shook out the still-wet hair. It was rapidly drying in the warm evening air. The breeze was still almost hot, and getting heavy with car fumes. He ought to close the window.

He ought to be going through the pages for tomorrow's shooting, as well, but the dialog was hardly essential to the plot. If Paul was on schedule, he would be humping Jeff on a hay bale in the barn set, before the stagehands took it all to pieces and rearranged it as the cave interior, with a bunch of Styrofoam slabs that looked convincingly like rock. Some of them were so old, Charlton Heston was probably acting in front of them, in the original Planet of the Apes.

He had eight lines of dialog tomorrow, and they were bad. Paul was not getting any better at putting words into actors' mouths. If he was as good at putting words there as he was at putting his dick here, he would have been brilliant. The script was lying on the chair, on the other side of the bed. Sonny picked it up on his way to the window.

INT. NIGHT -- The Barn. Matt and John meet for the first time in a week. John wants to tell Matt about the roughnecks who suspect him of being a shifter, and are in the woods, laying traps for the wolf. But Matt is too hungry for John's body to listen.

"Save it -- tell me later," Sonny said in Matt's drawl. "You know what I want. I didn't come here to talk."

And Jeff would say, in that deep voice with the rich accent hinting of other cultures, other worlds, But this is important, Matt. You have to listen to what I'm saying to you.

"So I guess I'll listen real good when you can tell me the whole story ... but later, much later, after I've had what I came for," Sonny/Matt would drawl as he opened the buckskin shirt wide, shoved it back over John's shoulders, trapping his arms in it to hold him.

Camera closes in tight on his face as he stoops to John's chest, takes his nipple between his teeth and bites down. John gives a cry of pain and then a groan of pleasure, he tosses his head, and we hear the wolf howl in his voice. His fingers clench into Matt's arms and they wrestle down on a bale of hay ...

"Jesus, Paul, that's shitty dialog, man," Sonny groaned, "you're getting worse."

More likely, Paul was getting just plain lazy, because he knew Sonny and other bright, smart young actors like Jeff Lucas could adlib when they hit their marks; and in any case, the jeans were off in the next half minute, and all the talking was done with hands, lips, cocks.

It was like that at The Corral, in the hours after the front doors closed and the bouncers took station at the side door. The unsuspecting public was never likely to wander in. Every guy in the basement knew the score and was there for the thrill of it. Actions spoke louder than words.

Nobody cared where a guy was from, where he went to school, what he drove, what he did for a job. It was all about the broncs in the corral, and the cowboys outside of it ... who was going to get roped and ridden, and by whom, and how.

The old familiar thrill raced up Sonny's spine again and he dropped the script. The beer he had left on the table by the door, with his wallet and keys, on his way to the bathroom, was still cool enough to wet his throat. He took it to the window, intending to let the hot night air finish drying his hair before he slid into the black jeans, put his feet into the tooled Lucchese leather.

He was reaching for the window, ready to pull it across, shut out the car fumes, lock up for the night, when he looked down into the street. The streetlights were on. The sky was orange, reflecting the city lights. No stars -- not in LA, not inside of Sonny's lifespan. And down below, on the sidewalk right opposite, standing just outside the pool of blue brightness cast by one of the big streetlights, was that face.

That man. Again.

Always the same man, the same face, looking at him with the wide eyes, not even blinking, just staring, as if he could shoot lasers into the middle of Sonny, cut out his guts, or perhaps his soul.

The beer was forgotten and warm on Sonny's tongue. He swallowed with an effort as he saw the face, locked eyes with the man. This made forty times he had seen that face, in two weeks. At first he had assumed the guy was paparazzi, but he never seemed to carry any visible camera. He did not even have a phone that would take the kind of crappy shots few magazines would buy -- these days, digital was all about high quality.

It was an older dude -- he had to be at least fifty, Sonny thought, dressed in jeans and teeshirt and windbreaker, even though it was hot tonight. He just stood there with his hands in the pockets of the jacket, like --

Suddenly Sonny's blood turned cold and he stepped back from the window. Maybe he had seen too many movies, but the way the guy had his hands in the pockets of a jacket, on a night light this --? Gun in the pocket?

His heart thumped as he sidled around, grabbed the cord and yanked it hard to close the drapes over, and then continued on, back to the chest by the bed, and picked up his phone.

Still no text from Jeff, and no missed calls. This time, Sonny hardly bothered to notice. His fingers went through the ritual by themselves. Paul was top of his contacts list, and in seconds the phone was calling. Who else did you call, when you were scared shitless, and right in the middle of a major production -- or the most major production Take a Chance had ever undertaken? You called your producer.

Calling, and getting an answer, were not the same thing. "You have reached Paul Jordan," Paul's nasal voice said in his best level, casual but 'don't mess with me' manner. "I'm busy right now, but leave a message and I'll get right back to you."

"Hey, Paulie, man, call me. Soon." Sonny swallowed hard. He knew he sounded weird. "I think I'm ... I might have a problem," he said, hating voicemail. "Make it fast, all right? Thanks, man."

He hung up but kept the phone in his hand as he returned to the window. He slid along and looked through the crack between the drapes and the window frame ... and swore. The guy was gone. Or had he stepped back away from the light? Was he standing in the deep shadows at the side of the apartment building across the way? "Fuck," Sonny whispered. "Come on, Paulie, call, goddamn it!"

A Daring, Devoted Heart by Linda Hines

Published by DreamCraft
ISBN: 978-0-9807092-7-8
Genre: Western Romance.
Length: 37,500 words.
Cover: Jade.
Heat rating: 3.5
Price: $4.99
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Years ago, revenge brought Emeric von Gondrecourt to New Mexico. Now, the force keeping him there is loyalty to the Metairie family — and his love for the young Calder Metairie, who has grown up while Emeric watched.

The two men are separated by geography, history, language, culture — one, born an Austrian prince just before upheaval in Europe would rob him of his birthright, the other born to head a cattle ranch as vast as small European countries. Both were born to different kinds of power, positions of command, and lives bound by duty. And both share a secret.

Being gay at this volatile time in America's history is damned dangerous. Being two men in love is a hazard Calder and Emeric fully recognize —

But the simmering frustration with which Calder grapples, every moment of every day, is Emeric's stubborn refusal to allow himself to love, and to express his feelings in any physical sense. For Emeric, the situation is a labyrinth of duty and loyalty, desire and the determination to honor promises he made to the Metairie family in the wake of his one terrible mistake. The Metairies forgave Emeric once, and he enjoys a certain comradeship within the great Alteza cattle empire. He has worked long and hard to earn their trust and respect ... but would they forgive him a second time if his crime, this time, were to lay a lover's hands on Calder? For an Austrian warrior prince, the dilemma is bleak.

The situation between the two men is already like a powderkeg on a short fuse only waiting for a spark, when horse thieves steal Emeric's priceless Andalusian stallion, Lagrimas. The horse's name is prophetic ... it's the Spanish for tears, and this magnificent animal is at the epicenter of troubles, danger, which will bring Emeric and Calder face to face with their personal devils, once and for all.

A DARING, DEVOTED HEART is a Western with a difference. Not merely an m/m romance, it's also "quest fiction," taking a pair of mismatched heroes through country which brings to mind the works and words of Zane Grey, and culminating in a double-barreled climax — it's a hail of hot lead and a struggle to survive, before Calder Metairie and Emeric von Gondrecourt take those devils by the horns.

Chapter One

Beside the shaded riverbank, the buffalo grass was abundant, protected from the parching late summer sun of northern New Mexico by a leafy veil. Scattered sunlight filtered through the heavy foliage, dappling the leaves and painting whimsical shadows across the curly mesquite which blanketed the ground. Great branches stretched out across the river, coloring the canopied pools a cool viridian. Two riders halted from their journey there, as the hardwood gallery of bur oak, green ash and cottonwoods hailed a welcoming retreat.

Dismounting the big buckskin, Calder Metairie turned to his dark companion and laughed, as if once again wishing to rouse the prince from his serious thoughts. "Enough, I say," chided the spirited cowboy, hands on hips. "You voice concern when there is none. I am a man well grown."

"Too well grown," retorted Emeric von Gondrecourt, black eyes narrowing as he studied him. Carefully groomed to manage the Metairie Cattle Company's huge operation, Calder Metairie was impressive in stature and a skilled leader of men. Confident and charismatic at twenty-three, he was a young giant. With his handsome features, commanding presence and engaging ways, the young rancher attracted attention wherever he went. Too much attention, mused the prince, and usually of the wrong sort!

Amused, Calder tilted his Stetson to reflect his audacious personality. The bright blue shirt he wore contrasted sharply with his partner's darker garb. Worn and stained shotgun chaps covered his long, lean legs. A gun belt was prominent on his hip. Fancy silver spurs crowned the heels of his custom-made Coffeyville boots. And an elegant silver buckle graced his hand-tooled belt, the distinctive stylized M, a bold and recognizable symbol of strength throughout the rugged territory.

"I said enough, Emeric." Calder unsaddled Riago and pulled his bridle, freeing the buckskin gelding to graze among the high grass. Irritated still, he tossed his hat aside, brushing back his long dark hair, tying it at his nape with a rawhide cord. "Who are you to advise me on men? I don't try to pick your lovers."

"A man of more experience," he declared. "And there have been no lovers for you to pick." Prince by birth, warrior by circumstance — now at thirty-four, Emeric's features were quite striking, angular and gaunt. Lean, broad-shouldered, and physically powerful, Emeric von Gondrecourt was a haughty beast. A life hard fought had sharpened his mind, strengthened his body; its emotional scars lent his movements a wary leonine grace, and to those who threatened, he emanated a silent danger.

He was known as Jaeger along the Mediterranean and across the battlefields of Europe. The family he protected called him the Hunter.

Beneath long, thick lashes the cowboy's eyes changed with his moods, and Emeric noticed, now they were a deeper blue. "Calder, what may be accepted between two men in a warriors' camp, or behind closed doors at a princely court, can surely get you killed in the American territories in 1878."

"Emeric," Calder challenged with a wounded expression only his trusted companion understood, "I know of your life before, and the passion you once shared. But that was years ago. Why do you bridle your love now?"

"Calder," Emeric said softly to the man he knew who loved him — a feeling he deeply shared, but was honor-bound never to acknowledge, "because the only man I love is the one I cannot have."

"Me?" They stood close enough to touch, their words a whisper and a lamentation.

"Yes, you know that well enough."

"Emeric, why?"

"Your uncle extended to me his trust; my word, his only demand. Now, by my honor, he has me bound foot and hand."

"We are alone. Who would know?"

"I would. I gave my word to protect his family. I doubt that includes taking you to my bed."

"But it's not right. Who is he to set such boundaries?"

"Calder, what we share knows no boundaries. I feel your desire — know your love by every word you speak and every thoughtful action you perform."

"It is not enough. I need your touch. I need you part of me."

Emeric sighed. "I yearn for your touch as well. More than you will ever know. But it is the choice we were given. I can be here with you now. Choose devotion over desire. Or I must leave. For me, there is no other way."

The gaze they shared seemed endless and was the invocation of their longing. Both men knew words were not enough. Desire ached, and then it burned.

Deviled by discontent, young Metairie turned away. Quickly, he unpacked the harness and with a gentle stroke freed Mythos, the gelding who carried their supplies. The striking blood bay and golden buckskin presented a pleasing scene as they grazed at river's edge. Nodding to his companion, the cowboy set off to gather firewood, leaving Emeric to attend to his stallion and prepare their camp. Stripping his fine mount of leather and pack, Emeric loosed the silvery gray to quench his thirst and join the horses along the riverbank.

The viridian pool mirrored the prince's reflection, and he stared into its depths. He was plainly dressed in the European fashion. His shirt was of the finest linen; his waistcoat and breeches were black and severely cut. He possessed the long, muscular legs of a horseman; his tall gray boots, which were of the richest and most supple leather, seemed a part of him. A revolver on his hip and a black, low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat were the sole concessions to his presence on this continent.

Running a calloused hand through his dark, rumpled hair, Emeric turned his thoughts to ordering the camp. Eyes narrowing, he glanced through the tangle of trees, pondering their words, impatient for the return of his young companion.

"Lagrimas!"

The magnificent Andalusian stallion raised his sculpted head, dark eyes peering brightly through lustrous strands of silvery forelock. Neck arched, heavy mane tousled, he shook his head in spirited fashion. He was a big horse, strongly built, compact yet elegant, with a long, exquisite mane and tail.

One of the oldest pure breeds in the world, the Andalusian was known for its intelligence, sensitivity and docility. The horses originated on the Iberian Peninsula in Spain, where ancient cave paintings portrayed their noble breed. The chosen mount of captains and kings, the Andalusian was praised for its prowess as a war horse and prized by the nobility. The breed was used as a tool of diplomacy by the Spanish government, and was known as the Royal Horse of Europe. Alas, warfare and disease during the early nineteenth century had reduced the herds dramatically, and exportation from Spain had been restricted since that time.

"Come," he called, as Lagrimas nickered impatiently. Quickly, the gray approached, halting only when Emeric felt the rare stud's silky jaw brush gently against his own gaunt cheek. The soldier's whisper was a caress. Emeric had raised the stallion from a foal, and in 1873 brought him to America from the Mediterranean on his own great ship.

A Habsburg of both Spanish and Austrian descent, Emeric had often visited his austere grandfather in Spain — a nobleman of high rank and domineering ways. The Andalusian was bequeathed to him upon the old man's death. Honoring the stern old warrior, missing him still, Emeric named the spirited colt Lagrimas, which in the Spanish language meant tears. Now, along with Emeric's beloved books, the magnificent stallion was the only physical reminder of his life before.

The Hunter left his mount with a gentle word and a long caress. Inquisitive, the gray followed, gracefully bending his long neck to nuzzle about the saddles and packs spread haphazardly upon the ground. Amused, Emeric found pleasure in the antics of his silver stallion.

Of a splendid intellect, and a daring, devoted heart, Emeric's powers were all combined upon a single purpose: atonement.

Protecting Mariah Metairie, her daughter and her sons was his fervent vow.

But adversity molded the man, not condition of birth, as each experience, success and sorrow, shaped the mind and impacted the heart. Now, Emeric remembered once again the dramatic events which brought a dispossessed Austrian prince to the wildest territories in the American West — an old lover, misplaced passion, and an unforgivable lie.

From MINDSPACE by Mel Keegan

From MINDSPACE by Mel Keegan

A shadow moved from the corner between the pink marble columns and immense potted ficus. The valet was the perfect androgyne, very human, tall, young, slender, with raven hair and black eyes, and a gender so indeterminate, Jack was fascinated. Even the voice gave away no secret.

“This way, gentlemen. Would you care for supper?”

“We ate already,” Kieron said sadly, “and right now I wish we’d given the noodle bar a miss! But we’ll take breakfast. Can you give me a wake-up call? 06:00 will do just fine.”

The valet dropped a smooth half bow, with perfect manners and enviable grace. “If you need anything at all in the night … room service.”

And then he, or she, melted back into the soft shadows and perfumed air, and the door closed on a suite the like of which Jack had never seen outside the gamespace. He gave a low whistle as he turned around on the spot to admire it.

A king sized bed with a circular mattress. A feature wall displaying the city as if through smoked glass, while the glass displayed all forty channels of CityNet, iconized, only waiting for one to be selected. Kieron touched a fingertip to an icon and the city was gone, replaced by a greater-than lifesize, threedee theatrical performance — was it Macbeth? Jack did not know the ancients well enough to tell one production from another. They were enjoying a surge of popularity lately, since someone had just translated them into modern language and staged them in contemporary settings. He turned his back on the play and investigated the bar instead.

“Off,” Kieron said to the AI as Jack poured two flutes of an old, jewel-rich Velcastran red. The drama vanished; the city reappeared, but Kieron was ignoring it now.

Footsteps padded on the silver-green carpet, and big arms went about Jack from behind. Kieron’s nose sifted through his hair, and lips touched his ear. “Wine?” Jack offered. “Nothing but the best here.”

“No.” Kieron’s tonguetip flicked the ear, outlined it. “I’m flying in the morning. Can’t imbibe. It’s not like gaming.”

“Meaning?” Jack set the glasses down on the bar’s deep cherrywood counter and turned into Kieron’s embrace.

“They tell me,” Kieron said wisely, “gaming is better if you’re stoned or drunk.”

“They tell you wrong.” Jack’s arms hooked around the bigger man’s neck. “You go mindspacing when you’re not in command of your faculties, and it turns into a nightmare. The game plays you, not the other way around. Even if you’re playing the AI it’s bad, but if there’s other gamers online, if you’re up against real talent, there’ll be blood. Literally. You can get yourself raped and murdered, and if that happens, Ron, the game kicks you back six or eight levels, and the next time you play … it’s nastier, darker, harder, to get back to where you were when you were dumb enough to go in drunk or stoned. And before you ask why, it gets that way because you create the gamespace yourself.”

Kieron made a face. “Why in the name of anybody’s god would you want to get involved in this crap? No,” he added with a sigh, “don’t answer that. I don’t want a sermon. Or an argument.”

“No? Then what do you want?” Jack cast a glance over one shoulder, at the bed. “Back at guild school, I had to seduce you.”

“Back at guild school, all I wanted to do was fly, and get through the bloody exams, get qualified and get out,” Kieron snorted.

“And you did,” Jack said with all due pragmatism, “all of the above.” He was about to pull out of Kieron’s embrace when the navigator caught him, hugged him hard, and covered his mouth with a kiss.

It was a long time since Kieron had kissed him at all, much less with passion. Jack clung to it, taking everything he could get from it, before Kieron lifted his head away to breathe.

“What’s this all about?” Jack demanded windedly. “Damnit, you’re not feeling guilty, are you? You are!”

“Guilty?” Kieron flicked his belt buckle, dropped it and pulled the green uniform tunic over his head.

He was built like a Pakrani, even though he did not have the fair complexion or the pale hair. Kieron was as dark as the true Pak were blond; his skin was as swarthy as Max Gorodin’s, telltale of the intricate interweave of the colonial genestrands, which gave so many people in the Deep Sky their unmistakable looks. Earthers liked to say most people out here looked Afro-Eurasian, but the categorization was too broad to say much. Jack, Kieron and Max were absolutely unalike and all Deep Sky natives, bred and born.

Kieron had lost a few kilos lately, Jack noticed. He was leaner, harder, as if he had been running, lifting weights. “Now, how stupid is this?” he was saying in a growl. “What in any world do I have to be guilty about?”

“Me,” Jack said mildly, simply making the simple observation. “After guild school you made it all work. I didn’t. You bounced right out of school into work. Me? I was months in dock, so bored out of my gourd, I started gaming to kill time, waiting for a ride that seemed like it was never going to come. And it turned out I was damned good in the game. I could have turned pro, gotten stinking rich … I probably would have, if the whole thing didn’t turn illegal just about the time I was good enough, ranked high enough, to play professionally.” He shrugged. “Then, where was my luck? I just had to get busted, didn’t I? I had to have my guild ticket nixed.”

“Jack, don’t,” Kieron began.

“And then I drifted around, going from one nothing job to another, getting way too friendly with Freespacers, even the good ones, like Ruby Wu, till …” Jack’s shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug. “Here we are. I’m flat broke and lucky to have the price of a bowl of noodles, and you’re in the choice spot, jockeying something like the Pleiades.” He nodded soberly. “I’d say that’s enough to give you the guilts … because you always did like to look out for me, like Grodin said. Or try to. And you probably figure you blew it, let me land right in a steaming pile.”

An enormous sigh said many things Kieron Charig was not about to put into words. If Jack had expected him to deny any of it, say it was completely ridiculous and Max Gorodin was dead wrong, he was surprised. Kieron said nothing at all.

Instead, he tumbled Jack onto the bed and stretched out beside him. Big, warm hands were everywhere at once, as if he must remap, rechart space he had more than half forgotten. Jack was stripped bare, petted, stroked, kissed. He let Kieron do it all, let himself be moved and turned as Kieron wanted, until his senses blurred into one great pool of surprised pleasure.

His eyes had closed when Kieron’s weight settled on him, blanketing him with heat and the musk-sharp envelope of old cologne and clean young male. Jack’s arms went around him; his hands knotted into the spill of Kieron’s dark hair, holding him to a kiss.

“Jack.” Kieron’s breath was short. Hard flesh stabbed into Jack’s hip and belly. “Jack — can I? You know what I want?”

Nothing ever changed. Real life was not much like the game, where lovers like Danno went down willingly under Jack, gave themselves, in every way Jack’s mind could fathom, and every way the rampaging imaginations of a thousand other master gamers could design. Reality was predictable. Jack only smiled and, as Kieron lifted off him, he turned over and pillowed his cheek on the comforter, silk-soft and smooth.

MINDSPACE by Mel Keegan

95,000 words $9.95 in ebook out now from DreamCraft

From PAINTING STEPHEN (again) by Jayne DeMarco

Painting Stephen is due in the first quarter, 2010, from DreamCraft.

“I met your neighbour on the way out.” Stephen nodded toward the lift. “She saw me coming down from your level. Nobody else lives up here, with the renovators in, in the other apartment.” He tilted his head at John, studying him almost rudely. “I guess your neighbour, Mrs. Landry, thought I was your boyfriend, because she was all over me, making me welcome. ‘How great to see John’s found someone!’ And, ‘Something should be done about that little bitch, Vonnie.’ And … like that.” He shrugged the wide, sleek shoulders. “I had to piece it together, but I didn’t have to ask. Mrs. Landry’s better than The Young and the Restless.” His brows rose. “So I know you’re bi, and I know your ex walked out and took just about everything that wasn’t nailed down.” He smiled. “And I know you like me.” His eyes strayed downward, past John’s belly, and flickered to the bulge which had filled right back out as soon as he came close.

Heat flushed John’s face. “You know a hell of a lot.” And yes, the kid was right. Lately he had been feeling his age, seeing a few gray threads in the mirror and tweaking them out before anyone else noticed them – mocking himself for the vanity of it, because if he kept that up he would be bald. “I’m too old for you.”

“Bullshit,” Stephen said calmly.

The remark seemed somehow funny. John felt a thrill of almost hysterical humor and swallowed it fast. “Old enough to be your father, and legally, too.”

“So?” Stephen was within arm’s reach, almost close enough to kiss. “I’d say it’s up to me to decide if you’re too old, because I’m the only one it ought to matter to. And it doesn’t. Matter, that is.” He gave John an odd, lopsided grin. “You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?”

The question stole the wind right out of John’s sails. “I … Jesus Christ, kid, if you’re setting me up to take a fall, I’ll –” He stopped sort there. What exactly would he do? Show Stephen the fiery side of an Irish temper inherited from his grandmother, and then show him the door and tell Barry to hire his models more carefully in future?

Stephen had sighed deeply, and now looked away. His eyes were shadowed. “Okay. If you want to spend the rest of your life feeling like shit because your ex ran off with some old boyfriend, fine. Sit in the apartment here and turn into a cranky old fart if you want – and you seem to want that more than anything I’ve got to offer.”

A moment later he was snatching up his clothes, and in two minutes he would be gone, probably to walk off the disappointment and frustration, and no doubt the embarrassment of having made the classic proposition only to be comprehensively snubbed.

When he returned – as he must; he needed the work – the magic would be broken. To John, he would be a job, just another model who stripped naked for an artist without any emotional element. No desire, no feeling. Certainly no love. Just three or four hours of lying on a couch, bare-ass and bored out of his gourd, to put a few bucks into his pocket.

The magic was tangible, it crackled between them, still, though the luster had begun to tarnish. Only John Templeton’s forty-year-old cynicism, and the bitterness left over from yet another broken relationship, spoiled it. Cynicism did battle with the part of him which still longed to be ten years younger, free to choose who he would be and reinvent himself every second Tuesday if he wanted to.

In the past, always, cynicism had won. Yvonne used to call him that too: the cynical old fart. And he had begun to feel it lately. He closed his eyes, desperate to let go the fetters. He almost felt himself groping around in search of the pink-tinted eyeglasses he must have worn when he was twenty-five, thirty-five, for the world had looked a much rosier place in those days.

“Stephen.”

The kid paused, back still turned to him, shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, jeans in both hands. He turned only his head, and his face was a cautious blank. The invitation was not withdrawn, not yet. But neither was it engraved on a card and served up on a silver platter any longer. He was simply waiting, and John knew a ‘now or never’ moment when he saw one.

“Don’t go,” he said quietly.

Posted by Jade, on behalf of Jayne DeMarco

From PAINTING STEPHEN by Jayne DeMarco

Painting Stephen is due in the first quarter, 2010, from DreamCraft.

The dozen paintings had disappeared with Barry Provine’s company van two days before. Prints of them were tacked to the corkboard on the wall which got the least direct sun; prints soon faded if the light got at them. John pored over them now, wondering what price Barry would be able to get for a collection of ‘truth’ that was at least five times more honest than the average art fancier could bear.

Too much truth. Too much honesty. What the world needed was fantasy, he told himself as he looked at the clock for the third time in twenty minutes.

His name was Stephen, and he was late. He was supposed to show up ‘around one,’ and it was two now. The late lunch John had set out had gone stale, and the wine he had opened to breathe was warm. No text messages were on the cell phone; no messages were on the machine.

With a smothered curse, John gathered the platter, bottle and glasses, and he was headed for the kitchen when he heard the grinding, rumbling sound. That vibration through the floorboards was long familiar. He would have known it in his sleep, and he swore again.

The lift was coming up, right up to the top floor; and since he got few visitors lately, and Barry was not due to swing by until there were fresh pictures to view, it was a safe bet the little tyke had decided to drift in an hour late.

Starting a working relationship angry was a bad thing to do, and John sought patience as he stretched plastic wrap over the spoiled platter and put the wine back in the fridge to re-chill. He leaned on the sink, looking out yhrough the long glass pane at the rooftops of the buildings opposite, and waited.

Only two studio apartments opened off the passage which led south from the lift shaft. The other one was empty. The renovators were in, ripping out walls, tearing up carpets. When they were done the studio would rent to another artist or sculptor, someone who needed the space and appreciated the light – but the light on John’s side of the building was better.

Three, two one: knuckled rapped on the door. It was fifteen strides from the lift to that door. John knew every knot in the timber floor. He gave the upturned glasses a speculative look and left them were they stood.

The door was open; he could have called to the little sprat to come right in, but some stubborn bone in his skull remained annoyed, and he permitted himself the luxury of a heavy tread, of swinging open the door and glaring at the little nuisance who could not even show up on time when he needed the work.

But the glare dissolved into an open-mouthed stare before he could wrap his tongue around even the first of the sharp words he had intended.

Fidgeting right outside was the most beautiful young man John had ever seen, and during twenty years in gay bars and clubs from San Francisco and New Orleans to Paris and Marseilles, he had seen greater beauty than most people ever imagined. And this young man was intriguingly shamefaced, wearing a pink blush and brandishing a handful of spent bus tickets.

I’m sorry, Mr. Templeton, I missed a transfer, had to wait for the next bus, and it was late. I got here as soon as I could.” The accent was West Coast; the timbre of the voice was light, tenor, sweet.

John hunted for his own voice, and for coherence. “You didn’t call.”

“Don’t have a phone on me.” Stephen patted his pockets. “Don’t actually have a phone. Well, I have one, but … you don’t pay the bill and you get kind of, uh, disconnected.”

A pang of remorse assaulted John. He had the decency to mentally deal himself a swift kick, and stood aside to clear the doorway. “Better late than never … and I know what you mean about the buses. My car needs fixing.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the basement, the garage where the Pontiac was still under dust covers in the further corner from the lights. No need to mention, it had been there for three months now, and would stay there another three, until or unless cash materialized out of the ether.

And if Barry Provine was even halfway right, it just might. With a tingling sense of awakening, John watched the young man step into the apartment – watched the way he moved, the swing of his slim hips, the curve of his cheek, the way he held his hands. He wore his jeans so tight, they night have been painted on, and they were old, soft, clinging. The pale blue teeshirt was baggy enough to float around him; the forearms were tanned, smooth. He wore his dark brown hair a little long, which John liked; it was deeply wavy, almost curly on his neck. His running shoes were comfortable, battered.

“How old are you – if you don’t mind me asking,” he prompted as Stephen came to rest in the middle of the apartment and turned toward him. “In any bar of mine, I’d card you!”

“I’m twenty-three,” Stephen told him with a self-conscious smile. “You want my driver’s license? I don’t have a car, but I do have a license!”

Twenty-three. What a glorious age. The perfect age, when a lot of the boy remained, but a lot of the man had taken root, and the combination was irresistible. “No, it’s … no.” John relaxed a little. Barry was much too careful to hire underage kids. “You just look young.”

“I know.” Stephen ducked his head, wrinkled his nose, mocking himself. “They keep telling me, time’ll cure that.”

“But not too soon,” John said wistfully.

Posted by Jade, on behalf of Jayne deMarco

From SCORPIO by Mel Keegan

Excerpted from NARC #3: Scorpio by Mel Keegan

Stone was still frowning at the space where the vids had run. What he was thinking, Jarrat could not know, but the emotion churning through him was powerful, dark, turbulent as a river in flood. Jarrat tightened his grip on Stone’s fingers till the blue eyes cleared. Stone seemed to return to the present with a small start, and forced a smile. “I always wanted to see Jesse Lawrence dance. Ever since that night on Skycity when we saw him in the courtyard with a bunch of other uptown Companions. Remember?”

“I remember.” Jarrat was sure Stone’s words had nothing to do with what he was thinking, but he was content to let Stone cover for the moment. “You ready to go, Vic?”

The colonel’s voice issued from the bedroom. “Ready to get laid? I was born ready, Jarrat. Tell him, Stoney.”

“He was?” Jarrat asked of Stone as they drifted toward the door, the private garage and the Rand Viper.

“Why ask me?” Stone demanded. “He was just my instructor at Tac school, and in those days he used to tell me, and I quote, I’d ‘never amount to shit.’ I didn’t see him again till the Equinox bust. And as for shagging the instructors at Tac school —”

“You’d be bounced out on your ass,” Cronin said glibly with a glance at Stone’s butt. “No matter how cute it was. Vic, we’re leaving!” And he disappeared into the garage before Duggan answered.

Stone managed a creditable chuckle, leaned over and landed a kiss off-center of Jarrat’s mouth. “He’s right. Gil’s known a lot of guys who transferred over, Tac to NARC. A few landed in his unit ... Vic we’re bloody leaving!” He had the keys in his hand.

“All right, Christ, where’s your rush?” Duggan demanded, pulling on his jacket as he left the bedroom. His hair was still damp, his cheeks ruddy with vodka and the quick shave. “So where’s this nookie shop?”


Sensations was an uptown club. In city bottom the same establishment would have been called a den, and Tactical would have sent a patrol through every couple of hours, but in the Alvarez sector, in the foothills of the Caerleon Range, it was an elite club with a select clientele, and Tac kept a profile so low, they were invisible.

The top two floors of the Chubb-Carleton Building belonged to Sensations. A casino opened right off the skypark; the restaurant flanked the gaming tables, with two stages, and as they strode into the club a band was already performing on one podium, a conjurer on the other. The accommodations were one level down, and Sensations had a reputation: leather and lace, recreational ‘treats’ and VR visors, iced champagne and satin sheets. Companions, performers, steelrock or Mozart ... or peace and quiet, a bottle of wine, a soft bed and a cab home in the morning.

Deep in the club, beyond the glamor of the casino, lasers danced across the high, fluted ceiling. Gold and purple strobes winked in dim, smoky corners where half-seen bodies writhed in rhythm to the grinding bass of the steelrock. The deeper into Sensations one delved, the more familiar it became. Jarrat had visited many a city bottom den that felt, smelt, no different.

He studied Stone, watched the pageant of expression on his partner’s face. Cronin had dropped behind, slid into a vacant place at a blackjack table, and Duggan already had a long drink in one hand, a house Companion of indeterminate gender in the other. In an hour he would be laid and spent, in two hours, comatose, and in the morning perhaps he could set aside the anger which consumed him.

The thud of the steelrock found its way into every bone in a man’s body, thrummed in his marrow, vibrated in his pelvis. It was the subetheric track, Jarrat knew. The ears could not even hear it, but it worked its magic. He felt his nerves enliven after the stultifying session before the tribunal, felt the blood begin to pulse into every extremity. He moved closer to Stone as they made their way around the vast, threshing dance floor. Companions, performers and clients were entangled, indistinguishable, and the air was already thick with dream smoke.

Gold strobes scurried at foot level and lasers dueled just overhead, visible in the pall of mild narcotic smoke. Jarrat’s ears had begun to buzz pleasantly when he heard a voice he knew. “Hey, Jarrat, is that you? Stoney!”

“Who in hell knows we’re here?” Stone groaned, but when they turned toward the voice they saw Tim Kwei, and a quick smile replaced the grimace. “Tim, you look good ... considering.”

In fact, Tim Kwei looked a little thin, a little pinched. The Angel was still in his system, making him feel under par, as if he were trying to throw off a virus. Harry would have given him vitamins, immune boosters, antioxidants, but the Angel toxin would have to cycle out in its own good time. He was in loose, flimsy oyster silk, a lot of platinum jewelry and the peasant sandals that were chic this year. He was tanned, as he had never been in the perpetual shadow of Zeus.

“I’m okay,” Kwei told Stone as he gave his hand to Jarrat. “When did you guys get in? Will you be here long? Jack had to work, he couldn’t get here, but I know he’ll want to catch up with you.”

The young men came as a threesome: Jesse Lawrence, Tim Kwei and Jack Spiteri, three unlikely survivors of the Equinox bust.

“We got in late yesterday,” Jarrat told him. “Dupre wants us on a courier tomorrow evening, but we have a day.”

Kwei’s eyes narrowed as the lasers lanced toward him. “You’re back on assignment ... it’s Thule, isn’t it?”

“How did you guess?” Stone asked in arid tones.

“Didn’t have to.” Kwei nodded in the general direction of the NARC compound. “Jack’s working for NARC now, doing what he does best. Project design. Dupre’s had him modeling grav-resist structures in low temperatures and skinny air pressure. Doesn’t take too many brain cells to work out where NARC’s deploying next.” He paused and rubbed his nose, which would have become a habit since he inhaled the Angel. His sinuses would have been blocked for days, irritated for days longer. “I just had an offer from your R&D office,” he added. “Doctor McKinnen’s team, in fact. Biocyber development.”

“You?” Jarrat waved for a drink waiter and appropriated a glass of something pale blue and effervescent. “The last I heard, you were writing VR games.”

“I was. I still am.” Kwei’s face darkened. “I’m the best in Venice, so it didn’t take long for NARC to notice me, and they know as well as Randy Dorne did, game algorithms double as battlefield sim.” His teeth worried at his lip. “I’m already kind of connected with NARC, so I probably look like a safe bet. I agreed to do the thing with Doc Del.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered animatedly. “If I go to work with McKinnen, they want me to develop battlefield models.” He looked owlishly at Jarrat and Stone. “Skinny air pressure, low temperatures, grav-resist structures. If that’s not Thule, Stoney, where is it?”

“It’s Thule,” Stone affirmed. “So where’s Jesse?”

“Getting into costume. If you can call it a costume.” Tim grinned widely. “He’s doing a whole new routine, s’why I’m here tonight.” He peered at his chrono in the weird half-light. “You want to watch? We have our own table. Have you eaten?”

The table was recessed into a deep alcove, away from the strobes and lasers but with a good view of the stage. A troupe was finishing as they looked over the menu. The five dancers were all part gymnast, part acrobat, with an odd routine, at once martial and seductive. Jarrat was impressed. Any of the performers and Companions here could have worked on Skycity. For Jesse Lawrence to be one of them was an accolade in a demanding business.

They had lost track of Cronin and Duggan, and were still waiting for dinner when the music changed gear. The subetherics deepened, the stage lighting dimmed and shifted to thick reds and golds. A heavy bass drumbeat set up a primitive rhythm, and Jarrat felt the sharp edge of Stone’s intrigue as they turned toward the stage.

The ‘costume’ was mostly paint, so cleverly applied, it might have been tattooed. Jesse wore an eagle with widespread wings across his chest, raven and wolf faces about his calves, serpents coiled about his thighs, eagle feathers draped artfully about his arms, all in paint which fluoresced in the odd lights, green, blue, mauve, the colors never the same for two consecutive seconds. The tiny posing pouch was chameleon skin, a rainbow of shifting, restless hues. It did more to accentuate than conceal. His hair was braided with strands of the same chameleon fiber, and eagle feathers. He might have been made of light and color, woven out of sheer imagination, inspired by dream smoke, animated by the hypnotic, barbarian cadence of the drums. There was no melody, no vocal, just a range of bass tomtoms which Jarrat suspected were synthetic. It would have taken at least three drummers to handle the instruments, and the precision was inhuman.

Not so the dancer, nor the dance. Jesse Lawrence was the consummate professional. Where his partners, Tim and Jack, worked in virtual worlds, manipulating algorithms, massaging supercomputers, Jesse worked in a realm of the senses, a world of energy, perception of every kind, and unabashed eroticism. While he danced, the crowd near the stage silenced, swiveled to watch. Tim Kwei could have taken out a patent on his smug look. Tonight Jesse was sinuous, sensuous. Lithe as a panther, wanton, half-savage, yet sophisticated as a geisha. The combination of contradictions was stunning. Jarrat had expected steelrock, bump-and-grind, but as soon as it began, he knew he was wrong.

Eyes on the performer, he let down his empath’s shields to show Stone the naked heart of himself, and the wild freshet of Stone’s emotions sparkled through him. Stone was hot, already powerfully turned on before Jarrat touched him, caressed him deep down, where the empath’s neural channels reverberated. The touch was liquid fire and they both gasped. For a moment the stage and Jesse blurred. The dim corner of Sensations brightened, and Jarrat realized his eyes had dilated. His leg lay warmly against Stone’s, and Stone’s hand palmed the curve of his thigh.

The choreography was fluid, liquid, with an acrobatic finale. Jesse was rewarded with a patter of spontaneous applause. It was difficult to impress the clients who frequented clubs like Sensations, but Jesse Lawrence was among the elite of his kind.

A gold satin robe was tossed to him as he stepped out of the lights. He draped it about his shoulders and was still catching his breath as he retired to Kwei’s table. Tim handed him a tall glass of water without ice, and he drank deeply. The last, most difficult part of the routine was anaerobic: he was fish-breathing for some moments, but he recovered so fast, Jarrat was impressed.

“They liked it.” Jesse still had the accent of Avalon, Elysium, while Kwei was cultivating the sound of Darwin’s world. He gave Jarrat a smile which did not diminish as his eyes passed on to Stone. “I didn’t know you guys were in town.”

“They’re not,” Kwei said wryly. “Just passing through on their way to ... points colder, dryer and a lot more dangerous.” He chuckled and batted his eyelashes at Jarrat. “What? Did I come out and say it? It’s classified, I know.”

“The assignment’ll be classified till we can’t keep the carrier ‘dark’ any longer,” Stone told Jesse, who wore a perplexed look. “The first time our gunships deploy and the Ravens jump into the street, you got nothing left to hide.”

“Right.” Jesse sat back. The robe slithered off his shoulders, leaving him tantalizingly close to naked, adorned with body art which, on closer inspection, showed astonishing detail. Jarrat leaned over to see in the half-light. Jesse arched his back, extended one long leg. “It takes two hours to get into costume, but it’s worth it.”

“Costume?” Stone angled an appreciative glance at the flimsy scrap of chameleon skin stretched over Jesse’s groin.

Jesse plucked an ice cube out of the water pitcher and flicked it at him. “You know what I mean. The paint. You like?”

“I like.” Stone smiled sidelong at Jarrat. “I always had a ... a taste for a bit of the exotic.”

“Like him?” Jesse set back, cradled a glass of some ruby-red liquid and cocked his head at Jarrat. “Now, there’s exotic.”

“Me?” Jarrat laughed aloud. “Don’t con me. I’m about as exotic as a Shekley city bottom kid can get. Or ‘Army trash,’ as they call it in the base towns.”

“Army trash? I don’t see that. I see ... cougar,” Jesse argued. “Kind of golden and still half-wild, with fangs, claws. Dangerous even when he sleeps.” He nodded at Stone. “Ask him. He knows what I mean.”

The flashfire of Stone’s feelings hit Jarrat like a physical blow. Stone pushed back his chair and was on his feet. “Oh, he knows,” he said, rich and dark as old wine. He extended one hand to Jarrat. “It’s our last night groundside, together and on our own time.”

“Don’t waste it, Stoney,” Jesse advised, mock-solemly. “Tim?”

“Here.” From his shirt pocket Kwei produced a key. “I booked 822 as usual. We’re going to have dinner, dance, drop a few bucks at the tables. Jack might get in.”

Stone caught the key as it was tossed to him. “Thanks. You want the room later?”

“Much later,” Jesse purred. “We might join you, or you might play a little roulette and watch the cabaret. Around midnight it gets weird.”

“We’ll do that,” Stone decided. “Kevin?” He dropped the key into Jarrat’s hand.

---

Illustrated by Jade. See the new digital design for Jarrat and Stone, and other characters from the cult classic series.

From SCORPIO by Mel Keegan

Excerpted by NARC #3: Scorpio by Mel Keegan

Stone drained the coffee and passed the mug back to Paul Estevez with one hand, while the other plucked the white metal datacube out of the machine. “Four hours, Kevin. You want to take a look at Dupre’s file?”

“No,” Jarrat said darkly, but he knew they would look at it anyway, at least the overview. The whole document would unfold in a millrace of video and stats after they boarded the Persephone for the thirty-hour flight to Darwin’s. He stepped back to give Stone space. “Take care of yourself, Paul. Stay the hell out of Aurora, you and your better half.”

“Other half,” Estevez corrected glibly. “I’ll watch out for you in the newsvids. You guys always make headlines.”

The crew quarters were below and aft. Jarrat was silent as the lift went down, returning them to the small, cramped accommodations assigned to them for the training tour. They reminded him too strongly of the Army, and he gave the compartment a glare as he stepped inside. The door locked behind him, and a moment later he closed his eyes, smiled, as Stone’s arms slid around him. Stone’s chin rested on his shoulder, and Jarrat forcibly relaxed back into the bigger man’s embrace.

“Don’t let Jack Brogan get to you,” Stone advised. He feathered a kiss around Jarrat’s right ear. “He’s a sonofabitch, but he’s ... mostly harmless. Starfleet’s full of guys like him. The service is a great way for a kid from the burbs to rise very high and do it while he’s still young. Colonel by the age of thirty-five, if he’s any good. Take the rank back into civvy street, score a job that’ll put him in a penthouse on Darwin’s, or right back on Earth. Think about it, Kevin. Leave the gutters of Rio or Saigon or wherever, return to Earth as an executive. I don’t like Brogan, but you have to respect the man.”

“A social-climbing control freak, so you said.” Jarrat turned in Stone’s embrace, slid his arms around his partner’s waist and laced his fingers at Stone’s back. “What’s that make me?” “A survivor,” Stone said without hesitation. “The only thing Brogan ever had to survive before he got out onto the frontier was mediocrity.” He laid his lips on Jarrat’s, kissed him lightly and then frenched him. “Enough about Brogan. If I never saw his face again, I wouldn’t grieve. You, on the other hand ...”

With deft hands, he broke the seals and plucked open the skinsuit, a few microns of kevlex-titanium to hold pressure, lined with thermotex to hoard heat, laminated on the outer surfaces for radiation screening. Under normal cabin pressures the suits were soft as fabric, but much too hot. Jarrat’s skin was sweat-damp and he made hedonistic sounds as Stone stripped him to the structured jockstrap which safeguarded his balls when the G-forces soared. Stone’s eyes were hot on him, head to foot, and not at all mocking.

He heeled off the boots, kicked away the suit, and stepped into the shower stall. As the strap followed the boots he said, husky and not quite teasing, “Feel free to join me.”

“You trying to tell me I stink?” Stone quipped. The seals on his own suit rasped open.

“Not the word I’d have used.” Jarrat gave him a sultry look over his shoulder as he set the water, and watched Stone drop the suit. He was looking good. The ordeal at the hands of Death’s Head was only a bad memory now. Stone was tanned, supple, his muscles well-worked, the inner man at peace with himself. Blue eyes lingered over Jarrat, bone by bone, and with a deep breath Jarrat ‘opened’ himself to the strange pleasures of another’s sensations.

It was so familiar now, and welcome: the storm in the nerve endings, the surge of feeling which had once been confusing, distracting, even frightening. Jarrat’s half-closed eyes rested on the dark nest of Stone’s groin, and the thick root of him, rosy with growing excitement. They had been too cramped, kept too busy and under too much pressure since they came aboard to be intimate.

The stresses of another assignment were due to begin in a matter of hours, and Jarrat was keenly aware of Stone’s desire to make the most of what little time they could get. In these few hours, before the Persephone docked, they were technically on their own time. They had closure on the Oromon mission, they had officially been recalled from the training tour, yet the Aurora assignment was still no more than a file to view, data to digest.

“Take what you can get,” Stone said quietly as he stepped into the show- er stall. Two large bodies in the stall made for close quarters. His arms wound around Jarrat.

“They own us,” Jarrat growled. “I have a habit of forgetting.”

“Not for the next few hours,” Stone argued. “When we go aboard the courier on Dupre’s orders, we’re on his time. Till then ...”

“Take,” Jarrat echoed, “what you can get.”

And he twisted in the small space, slithering down Stone’s warm, wet body to rest his cheek against the flat plane of his Stone’s belly. Abs rippled, crisp hair tickled Jarrat’s ear and then his lips. He smiled as Stoney groaned, low and deep in his chest, and the flood of sensation rolled through both of them like warm honey. Jarrat’s lips parted. He breathed across Stone’s hard, risen shaft and took the gasp as a kudo. The flashfire of Stone’s excitement thrilled through him, bringing him so close to the edge, his teeth clenched and the breath fluttered in his throat.

“Kevin,” Stone groaned. “Damnit, Jarrat!”

It might have been a warning; it was the last coherent sound in the tiny cabin for some time.


Illustrated by Jade. See the new all-digital Jarrat and Stone here!

From DEATH'S HEAD by Mel Keegan

A mere snippet from the first of the NARC Books ... Jarrat is MIA; Stone has tracked him halfway around a planet and come within fifty yards of him, only to leave. And Jarrat? He was left for dead, and still can't fathom who he is, who Stoney is -- but memory is coming back in hot flashes...

Pain scythed through his skull, stress and dread finding every laser-weld, every repair, and testing it without mercy as he watched the scene out in the yard. Evelyn had stepped back into a patch of shade under the old cypress tree. The NARC took the young man in his arms for a moment and they kissed briefly. John’s innards lurched painfully. Then both strangers climbed up the hardpoints, into the cockpit. The NARC pulled on a helmet as the canopy whined down, locked. Repulsion howled like a hurricane. The main engines ignited with an earsplitting crescendo of noise, the tailpipes jetted flame, and the aircraft was gone. It looped up into the sky in a backbreaking arc and climbed away into the northwest. Half a minute later even the echoes of its engine thunder had faded to nothing.

“Shit,” Simon muttered. “I could have cut his guts out.” He ran into the forecourt, still carrying the rifle, and called his sister’s name. “So what did the bastard want with us?”

John followed, wary and silent. His muscles trembled in reaction and he held his tongue as the sun dried the sheen of sweat on his skin. Evelyn looked from his face to Simon’s and back again. “He wanted John.”

“The NARC wanted you,” Simon said through his teeth. “I was right! You are a crimmo! A dealer? A money man? A mule?” He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “And I was about to defend you.”

“Don’t point that thing at me unless you intend to use it,” John barked in a tone of voice Evelyn and Simon had never heard before. Normally he spoke softly, but not now. He took the HK out of Simon’s hands in one clean swipe. “And if you do, you better be ready to have your ass kicked from here to Eldorado. Besides, these weapons are illegal in civvy hands.”

“It isn’t illegal, it’s mine,” Evelyn said loudly. “I’m a veteran still listed with the Airlift Reserve. I’ve got a license. You know cannons?”

In answer, without thinking, he shouldered it, chose a limb on a tree a hundred meters back from the road and emptied the whole clip, dead on target. The wood splintered away and the limb fell heavily. His whole body remembered the feeling of the big weapon braying and vibrating. He felt the familiarity in his bones, and a voice spoke in the back of his mind, called him by name, and the name danced away again like a firefly.

The concussions rang back off the building. When they were silent once more Simon swore. “A shooter. You were a shooter.”

“Is he right?” Evelyn asked very quietly. “Were you, John? Come on, man! I just fed a crock of shit to that NARC, he’s coming back with a Tac intrusion permit. You can’t stay here much longer, not unless you want to go with him, maybe in manacles, maybe in a bodybag. He came here for you and, God help me, I almost handed you over without thinking! Your bullet scars, the conditioning of your mind. You could be Tac or NARC.”

“Or you could be syndicate,” Simon added. “I’ve been listening to the Tac band. There’s something on, something huge, and Death’s Head’s going to play rough, with real hardware. S’what they’re saying, Eve.”

She took a breath. “That’s not what I’m thinking.” She looked searchingly at John. “You probably are, or at least were, from Tactical. But you could be in trouble. Real trouble. On the run, between a rock and a hard place. NARC would bury you and ask questions later. Tan Del called Chell Tac, asking if they had an MIA fitting your description.” She shook her head. “Not a one. Which probably means you left Tactical not long ago. We just don’t know why.”

Fired, resigned? Convicted — justly or wrongfully? On the run from Tac, NARC and the syndicate? John handed the weapon to her. “Christ almighty, I don’t know. I wish I did. Thanks for getting rid of ... of him.” Sweat broke from every pore again as he turned away, left them, retreated to the house and flopped belly-down on the bed.

He took his skull in his hands and rubbed his forehead hard. The face of the NARC haunted him. The blue eyes glittered at him, but whether in mockery or welcome he could not tell. “Remember, goddamn you,” he groaned, “you sonofabitch, remember!”

The man’s face was still there, tormenting him as he exhausted himself and sank into a fretful sleep filled with acid-hot, dislocated dreams.

Excerpted from NARC #1: Death's Head by Mel Keegan

Illustrated by Jade with 3D art drawn from JADE'S ADVENTURES IN 3D

From Aphelion by Mel Keegan

A mere snippet from NARC #5: APHELION ... for those readers who think the NARC books are all about gunships, starships, fighting the Angel war, blazing away with guns in both fists. Not true! Sure, this plot is so thick you could stand a spoon up in it, but that ain't all, guys. Not by a looooong shot. So...

The empath yawned deeply. The wine was hitting his bloodstream and he relaxed visibly. “I’ll take a glass of whatever you got there. And yeah, I’ll take Cass up on it. His attorneys will get the legalities straight. There’ll be offices in Thule, Chell, Eldorado, wherever. Fundraising. Staff. It’ll take years to get the oars in the water, and if I’m right, I’ll have the pure blocker by the time it’s set up. The Marcus Brand Foundation will be about rehabilitation for users, and ... Bram Sorenson can go fuck a skunk.” He buried his nose in the glass Stone had just handed him.

At last Jarrat chuckled, and the humor was genuine. Harry seemed to inhale the wine without even tasting it. He put his head back, closed his eyes, and in minutes he would be asleep. Jarrat set a hand on Stone’s arm, and they wandered to the west side of the house. They would be under cover of the wide verandah there, and could watch the storm break out over the Neptune Gulf. By midnight, no part of Venice would not feel it.

The air was cooling as the sky darkened. Twilight wreathed the coastline, mauve, purple, shot through with lightning. Stone slung one arm across Jarrat’s shoulders, and his lips traced a moist path from his nape to his mouth. Jarrat turned toward him, hunting for a kiss, but Stone was moving. On a whim, he gathered the wine and glasses and dodged from tree to tree, out to the summerhouse on the other side of the garden. Jarrat felt the skip of his pulse as he followed. The rain drummed loudly on the bamboo roof but the rhododendrons and magnolias shut out the wind, and the prying eyes of the beach fishermen who were still tending their lines.

The wine was crisp, cold. Jarrat held it on his tongue as he caught Stone’s head and seized his lips. Stone murmured as he swallowed and his body was warm when he pressed Jarrat back into the timber support under the roof. The empathic shields dropped out by degrees. Desire had stirred in Jarrat as he watched Stone’s broad back before him, as Stone made his way to the summerhouse, and here, now, there was no reason to deny it.

As the shields fell, the lust that had been a constant companion for so long ignited in a long, steady burn. Jarrat did not care to remember a time when he and Stone did not feel this, sharing everything from primal lust to a love so simple, it was profound.

Stone’s skin was cool, but the pulse in his neck was fast, hard. Jarrat’s lips were against it, almost tasting the beat of his life. He relaxed back into the timber and closed his eyes as Stone’s hands slid into his shirt. They palmed his breast and swept downward, leaving swathes of tingling skin. He heard the snakelike slither of leather as his belt was cast aside, and the storm air prickled across his loins. Stone’s breath banished the chill there.

He cradled his partner’s skull, fingers threaded into the dark hair, clenched into the coarse silk of it, but Stone needed no urging. Jarrat’s voice caught in his throat as he was swallowed, root to crown, and reality skewed, spun away into half-heard sounds, half-formed thoughts. Stone was in a teasing mood, and soon enough Jarrat was murmuring hoarse curses.

The next he knew, he was on the bench under the frangipani while rain thundered on the bamboo overhead. He was naked, and Stone was dropping his own clothes in a careless pile. Beautiful, Jarrat thought, watching him with the eyes of a lover. Stone was no less than magnificent. He could have been forgiven for arrogance, but Jarrat saw, felt, none of that.

He moved aside to make space on the bench, and found his shoulders against timbers that were still sun-warm while the air was rapidly chilling. He knew exactly what Stone wanted, and settled with his back against the joist. With a soft oath, Stone straddled his lap, lifted up and settled down on him. His hands molded around Jarrat’s face, thumbs tracing the contours of cheekbones, his mouth. When he put his head down to kiss, Jarrat tasted himself there.

(Illustrated by Jade. See new new Jarrat and Stone digital models here, that's a wow factor!)

Excerpted from NARC #5: Aphelion by Mel Keegan

From GROUND ZERO by Mel Keegan

The open air restaurant was deserted; the umbrellas were folded and tied, the chairs turned over and stacked. The cleaners were already done, and they had the whole balcony to themselves. Two levels up, the helipad was busy with the flotilla of tiny, damselfly helicabs which flitted between downtown’s higher buildings like gnats, without pause. The air had that hot metal and scorching kerosene smell of hard working machines. Two levels down, the cinemas and live theaters were disgorging their crowds after the mid-evening show; live music boomed out of a dance club two levels lower still. Downtown Friday night was just starting to kick into gear.

The city lights were a glittering rainbow as far as they could see, every hue, in every direction. More than two million people lived within the metropolitan limits now; the sky was bright even at night with their light pollution, and rarely quiet, since the airport had become a spaceport in the early ’30s. Transorbital flights, passengers and cargo, staged through Adelaide all day, every day, headed for every point on the globe, and on to the Moon and Mars. Even then a commuter shuttle was on its way out. It might touch down again in Hong Kong or London, or it might be headed up for the transit station, where offworld passengers laid over, waiting for a flight.

Lee gave the view one glance and turned his back on it. He had grown up with it, seen it a thousand times, and he was much more interested in the man who had molded against his side and was nuzzling his neck. The night air was sharply cold, but Brendan was hot – and not merely with the physical warmth of a much larger body that was recently well fed and refueled with a great deal of champagne. Lee felt the rock hardness of him against his own hip, and he knew the sound of Brendan’s bass little growls as he pressed himself there, humping as much as he dared in a place that was semi-public, even if it was deserted.

“We need to go somewhere,” he said, moist heat against Lee’s cheek, shocking by contrast to the chill of the July night.

“We need to get back to that bloody stuffed-shirt convention,” Lee sighed.

“You’re kidding me.” Brendan leaned back and looked at him as if Lee had spontaneously gone insane, and to emphasize his point, he bumped and ground into Lee’s hip. “We need,” he repeated, “to go somewhere.”

“In a hurry,” Lee agreed a little breathlessly. “Ideas?”

The city lights sparkled in Brendan’s eyes. “Car.”

“Car?” Lee demanded, caught between amusement and outrage. “You serious?”

“Nothing wrong with a car,” Brendan argued. “What, you never got done in a car? You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

“I didn’t say that,” Lee admitted. “But … I was fifteen.”

Brendan hung one big arm over him. “And now you’re thirty. And a hundred bucks says our car’s a hell of a lot better than your dad’s ’25 Toyota.”

The arm around his shoulders was trying to steer Lee to the outside lifts, and he resisted. “Actually, it was my mom’s ’27 Ford. And the only reason you’re suggesting this is, you’ve got three sheets in the wind!”

“Ford, Toyota, big difference, huh?” Brendan devoured his ear and nibbled down the length of his neck. “Car?”

Coherent thought was rapidly deteriorating, but enough brain cells were holding it together for Lee to know the back seat of a Holden Ultima was never going to accommodate a body the size of Brendan, even vaguely horizontal.

“How about,” he suggested while he could still speak at all, “we buy an hour down at Farlight Zone?” Talking was not easy. His gonads seemed to have plans of their own.

“That’s eighty bucks,” Brendan groaned.

“So, you want to head for home?” Lee popped the top off the coffee, found it drinkable by now, and swallowed half of the scalding liquid in one chug.

“That’s forty minutes.” Brendan was wheedling.

“My gramma used to say, ‘You can save time or you can save money, not both,’” Lee intoned.

“Smart lady,” Brendan agreed. “And if I didn’t have three sheets in the freakin’ wind, I wouldn’t even be thinking about paying eighty freakin’ bucks for an hour in a freakin’ VR arcade!”

“But since you do…” Lee breathed coffee steam into his ear.

“Let’s swing by the car. There’s a coupla things we need,” Brendan growled, and gave Lee another push.

This time, he allowed himself to be steered to the lifts. They rode down to the parking levels with an old couple, a very pregnant girl, and three party animals of indeterminate gender whose levels of inebriation made Lee and Brendan look stone-cold sober. The rest of the passengers were headed for street level, but Brendan had punched for ‘P Level 3,’ and they stepped out into aromatic cold, concrete and echoes.

The ’46 Holden Ultima stood on the edge of the top deck of the parking levels. Not far from the lifts and kiosks. It was a decent sized hatchback with a long wheelbase and, admittedly, a big back seat. Still, Lee had never actually considered getting horizontal in it, and while part of him responded to the delicious thrill of the different, another part demanded comfort, if not dignity.

Blue-white neon overheads made even Brendan look leprous, despite his deep olive skin; Lee knew what he must look like himself, with his fair complexion. The blood-scarlet Holden had turned crimson with purple highlights. Brend unlocked it as they approached, and reached in, to the glovebox. Lee knew what he was fetching out, and lounged by the hatch, finishing his coffee and enjoying the opportunity to watch Brendan’s long legs.

Then the car relocked, and they were back in the lift – alone this time, headed back to the mall, and the top VR arcade, the ‘parlor’ with the multi-hookups and party rigs. Farlight Zone was not cheap, but it was the best, and more adults than kids frequented it. Younger patrons were carded before they could get into the adult games, but if one put down a Titanium credit card, access was unrestricted.

Mashed against the wall with Brendan plastered against him, intent on devouring him until the doors opened onto the mall, Lee was only barely coherent. He took a swift glance around as Brend released him – the cc surveillance cameras were sure to have imaged them, but no human eyes would be watching as Brendan humped against him, and Lee’s hands clenched into his buttocks in encouragement Brendan did not need.

They would also be cc imaged at Farlight Zone, but Lee was past caring if some computer knew the humans were getting laid, and if it ticketed them for having sex in a semi-public location, so be it. The fine would be money well spent. The damned AI nannies were everywhere now. You could hardly hope to scratch your nose without being imaged, and in the end the omnipresent surveillance was the same as if there was no surveillance at all: people had come to ignore it. Brendan was oblivious to it – or scornful of it.

The VR arcades were still busy, and would continue to rock into the small hours of Saturday morning. Farlight was a little less congested than the Captain’s Club; it was a lot more select, sophisticated, with fewer family hookups and a lot more party rigs.

The woman working reception looked them over with a faint air of amusement. She was forty, too blonde, too tanned, with purple eye makeup and black lipstick, and a tiger-striped skinsuit that might have been stenciled-on paint.

“Hookup for two?” she guessed.

There was a time Lee might have blushed, but not now. They both looked flushed, tousled, and the champagne had cast a palpable aura around them. Brendan produced his card with a flourish. “You got that one game with the ruined Mayan temple and the werejaguars?”

“Legend of the Black Orchid.” She punched keys. “You’ve played it before?”

“Long time ago,” Brendan admitted. “Leave out the giant spiders and the soldier ants ... leave out the werejaguars and the mad priests.”

She blinked long, mascara-heavy lashes at him. “You leave those out, all you’ve got left is the ruins.”

“And the tropical night, and the jungle birds, and a big full moon, and a million stars, and the hot wind off the mountains,” Brendan said blithely.

She looked him up and down, and then looked at Lee, and snorted. “One Black Orchid scenario, hold the game.”

Lee smothered a chuckle. “You get this often, this time of night, Friday, Saturday?”

“You have no idea, kiddo.” She pushed the ticket over the counter at Brendan. “You’ll get a soft chime at fifteen minutes, a louder one at thirty, a real clanger at forty-five, and a red light starts blipping at five minutes from closeout. You want to continue, it’s a buck a minute. We hold your credit card till you leave. Game control instructions are on the back of the door, and you’ll find a pamphlet on each seat.”

“Thanks.” Brendan saluted her with the ticket and leaned closer to Lee’s ear as they headed for the hookups. “I don’t need any damn’ instructions for the game we’ll be playing.”

Excerpted from GROUND ZERO by Mel Keegan

Unity, Squared by Sara Lansing

There are times, when the wind is roaring through the stripped frames of the Antares, and the sun is setting, swollen and yellow, through the blowing dust, that I feel so alone, alone as the last soul in all this universe.

But it is so unreal. Where is reality? Is reality the harshness of the broken ship, or is it the hope of rescue? Is it that beacon that calls to the stars and which I truly believe will one day draw a shuttle to my salvation...? Our salvation.

Or is it the one I love?

Does reality dwell only in the hope and belief that life does not end, and that broken flesh can be mended?

Shanna, Shanna, my love, it is so unfair that your spirit should define this terrible place, a voice in the wilderness, a whisper from beyond... And the lifeline to my sanity.

***

A figure stood in the deepening ruddy twilight of an unnamed planet, a hand raised to the blowing dust to keep a broad faceplate clear. By the feet of that figure lay a jagged, wind-scoured rock on which was burned a single phrase. Shanna's hope.

The figure turned, hunched in the wind, and moved with careful step between the rocks and the ever-shifting sands to the exposed flank of the ruined Antares, climbed a flash-welded ladder to an airlock, stepped within and sent the outer hatch across. Clean air flooded the chamber and a raging blast scoured all dust away.

Moments later the figure emerged in the dimly-lit, slanted interior of the crippled vessel, among the silence of desertion, and sat back on the suiting bench for a long, exhausted while before beginning to remove the worn, tough suit piece by piece. At last the suit was stowed in its niche and a woman with the pale features of strain and malnutrition stared at herself in a stainless steel surface. Eyes once filled with life were like the blank orbs of a doll, and scrappy hair hung in a witch’s straggle. With the precise motions of one who knew that an injury would mean death, she turned on the tilted deck and followed a safety line strung on the high side of the corridor.

***

Hi Shanna, I’m home! (Big smiles, a long hug and sweet kiss.) I got a fair bit done today, never as much as I would have liked, but enough. I realigned the suntrackers so we’ll get back to about 70% delivery on the solar cells, but the dust is scouring the protective coatings and reducing light reception. Unless this dust storm stops blowing a day will come... No, you’re right, best not to think of that. Just keep working on bringing the hotcores online instead as a fallback.

I explored the ridge to the south, it’s lucky we crashed where we did... Lucky we crashed, that’s funny! No, really! The other side of that ridge is a steep drop to volcanic gullies and rilles that would have smashed this ship apart beyond all hope of survival. At least the others got out when they did. I checked the logs when I got back, but there’s no signal. Hmph, that one hi-band antenna is our lifeline, the beacon goes out, a reply will come back the same way. We must hold onto the fact the escape pods have a better chance of being spotted up there than we have down here, and they’ll send a survey ship back. It’s only a matter of time.

Time... How long has it been, my love? Five weeks? Let me check... (A quick flutter of data through circuits, multiple overlays in the perceptive envelope...) Seven weeks. Seven? Where did they go? (Long silence.)

What’s that, grrl? You’d like to go for a swim? Me too!

***

No lights burned in the chamber she had set up for living. She flicked on a single fluorescent bar as she stepped in and sank into an acceleration couch’s welcoming comfort. The telltales of the computer interface lit as the ship’s surviving systems registered her presence, and she reached to the instruments at her side to tap a screen. Her evening meal ration began to heat in the food hole, nothing special, just enough to keep body and soul together, drawn from the emergency stores that had withstood the shocking impact of the Antares.

She saw her reflection in the cover of the food unit, saw how slimness had become gaunt, how her uniform coveralls hung loose on a body now motivated mostly by the will within. Her nametag, over her left breast, was meaningless, the letters backward to her eyes, though she knew they spelled out Harelson. Maggie Harelson... That was her name. Yes.

She ate without tasting, her eyes on the visual display of the com array, as they usually were at this hour, ‘monitoring,’ she called it, though any incoming signal would be brought to her attention by the main computer without her input. The radio sky pulsed and shimmered as the computers endlessly scanned the frequency spectrum for the ghost of a signal, whose reality might spell escape from this living hell.

At last she pushed aside the plastic food container, scraped clean, and with a sigh of relief drew on a sensory headset, adjusted the contacts to her temples and let her mind go blank...

***

The rush of dislocation was like coming home, and when Maggie Harelson emerged head and shoulders from the warm sea the sun on her face was a caress. Shanna was there as ever, like a mermaid, her long hair streaming. The women trod water after their dive, then began to stroke for the beach close by. Gentle waves pushed them ashore and they relaxed in the warm shallows for a while before striding up the beach to their camp. The breeze was cool on their bare skins, and they towelled off briskly before coming together in the full body hug that was the spice of their lives. Kisses were sweet as wine and exploring hands triggered quickfire nerve impulses that set them sighing and laughing into each other's mouths.

Shanna pressed Maggie gently back onto the rug on the sands and lay over her in a glide of smooth skin and wet hair, kissing and caressing, and their joy of being momentarily wiped away the agony of reality. Loving was the reward of living, and so long as there was life, there was love. Darting tongues and skilled fingers found well-known trigger points and each woman arched her back in her turn, crying out, to startle gulls on the red cliffs above the bay, in the ecstasy of climax. Panting, gasping, nothing else in the universe mattered in those moments, and the caressing aftermath, when they lay together in the cuddle of all lovers, was their affirmation that there was a way out of limbo.

“I’m concerned for you,” Shanna whispered. “You’re giving me the power.”

“You need it,” Maggie replied bluntly. “I’ll survive, my love. Because I must. You can’t without the power.” She smiled and stroked her lover’s face. “It gets cold. There’s not much to eat. At the end of the day, people have survived far greater hardships.”

“You truly believe they’ll come?”

“There would be no point fighting to survive without that belief,” Maggie whispered. “You and I will be together again.”

“Mags... I’m dead,” Shanna mouthed almost silently.

“Technically, yes. And technically, no.” Maggie’s smile was the forlorn hope of the desperate. “When the cockpit was wrecked and your seat broke loose, you were fatally injured. It’s your good luck the suspension pod in sickbay survived and I got you in there before you flatlined.”

“Or my curse.”

“Don’t say that.” Maggie squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “I need to believe. Your injuries are treatable and life was suspended before the end.”

“I’m a whisper in my own brain,” Shanna said, her voice blending with the roll of the sea. “Eventually I’ll loose coherence. And then... Who knows.”

Maggie took her face in her hands and kissed her firmly. “But that day is far away. So long as I keep the power to the pod above minimum safe level, you’ll survive.”

“And you’ll die slowly of cold and hunger.”

“It’s my choice.” Maggie stretched in the illusory warmth of the virtual sun. “I have faith.”

For a long moment Shanna was motionless, her eyes flicking right and left as if she were reading text, then she rose suddenly to her feet and looked around. When Maggie joined her, a strange current of excitement had entered her own consciousness, a prickle at the tips of her nerves. She put out a hand to her lover, who took it in a fond clasp, allowing herself to hope just this once before they faded out, and became as ghosts to each other.

***

Time sense distorted across the VR barrier and Maggie found the signal had been incoming for more than two hours when she opened her eyes and drew off the headset. Long enough for it to make no difference. Two faces she did not know were lit in the dim glow of emergency lamps, clean helmets were set aside and a young man with medical insignia on the shoulders of his suit was running a scanner over her. He looked up into her eyes and whispered “Welcome back, ma’am.” He turned and called his skipper.

The other man turned from inspecting the central computer interface and offered her his hand. A broad, craggy face was lit with a human relief that touched her heart. “Captain Harelson, it’s good to find you in one piece. Captain Mason, ship Bellatrix. We picked up the pods two days ago and backtracked their course. It’s a miracle you put her down at all.”

“The last pod malfunctioned,” Maggie whispered. “My senior pilot and I could only ride her in and do our best.” She released his hand, savouring human company but knowing she had held it long enough. “Speaking of whom...”

The medic inclined his head to the long, sealed sleep casket that nestled at the opposite wall of what had been the sickbay and nodded. “Both legs broken, ruptured spleen, punctured lung, if you hadn’t suspended her she would have been dead in minutes. If that. But according to the computer, she’s still in there.” He smiled and lay a gloved hand on her shoulder. “We’ll get her back to the Bellatrix, then leave it to me.”

Captain Mason took her hand and helped her rise stiffly. Her wasted frame and haggard face had not escaped his notice, and he knew why it was so grim here: a suspension pod took power to run, and he could only admire her determination in the face of bleak disaster. “Let’s get you both home,” he said softly.

Maggie crossed to the pod and looked through the monitoring panel at the face she knew best in all the universe, and lay her palm to the glass as she had times beyond reckoning, and in her mind’s eye she took her lover in an embrace as close as two beings in one skin. Not much longer, my love, she whispered silently to herself.

Not much longer.