Waterman: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus of historical fantasy and retrofuture science fiction

Meredith is from the Eastern Shore of the Bay. Carr is from the Western Shore. . . .

In an alternate universe where the New World was settled by the Old World in ancient times, by the twentieth century the Chesapeake Bay region has become a battleground for conflicting interests. Masters, liegemen, and servants struggle for identity in a society where every man and woman is born to an assigned rank. Their nation is divided uneasily between a 1910s culture and a futuristic 1960s culture filled with jet-cars, slidewalks, and holographic computers. Oystermen sailing to their harvests continue a long fight for control of fishing grounds, little aware that a greater danger is approaching the Bay.

Into this world arrive two young men, on opposite sides of the conflict. Their meeting and personal struggles will bring them allies and enemies as they enter into the heart of the danger.

This 160,000-word omnibus contains a novel and a piece of flash fiction in Waterman, a historical fantasy series and retrofuture series inspired by the Chesapeake Bay oyster wars, boarding school rivalries in the 1910s, and 1960s visions of things to come.

This is an expanded edition of an older collection.

VOLUME CONTENTS

"Master and Servant." Born into a society with a strictly ranked system of masters and servants, Carr has sought to tread his way delicately between the clashing values of the parents who raised him and the uncle whose household Carr will one day live in. Yet when he and other students at his boarding school become the latest participants in an ongoing battle between the oystermen of their Bay, Carr finds that his position of power may bring danger, not only to himself, but also to a schoolfellow he is drawn toward.

"Queue." What should a young servant do when his employer may fire him at any moment, his employer's beautiful daughter is absorbed with her high school textbook ("How to be Firm with Servants"), and he's blocked from carrying out a simple task by a snooty cyborg?

Excerpt

Meredith returned from the holidays to find his form much diminished. The Dozen Landsteads' universities all held entrance examinations during the autumn holidays; anyone who was eighteen sun-circuits by the beginning of the autumn term was eligible to sit exams. As a result, every lad in the seventh form who was eighteen by then left Narrows after the autumn term, other than Carruthers, who had missed his previous summer term and was still making up his studies.

Meredith's eighteenth birthday had come past the starting point for the autumn term, so he joined the students returning to school. The seventh form was always the smallest class, what with students dropping out after sixth form if they weren't planning to attend university, and a handful of students being sent down for violations of school rules. Now, with most of the six-tri-years students gone, so few seventh-formers were left that the Head Master erased the distinction between the Lower Seventh and the Upper Seventh, allowing third- and second-ranked students to attend lessons alongside first-ranked students.

The result of this was that Meredith found himself in all but one of the lessons that were attended by both Rudd and Carruthers.

To Meredith's great relief, Carruthers never looked his way. He sat in the front row in each class, industriously taking notes, as though his being Head Prefect and Captain of the Second House wouldn't be reason enough for the instructors to pass him with alacrity. Rudd, who had watched Meredith through narrowed eyes for the first week or two, gradually lost interest in scrutinizing the activities of his fag. After a while, Meredith managed to keep his mind on schoolwork during lesson-time, rather than on the explosive combination of himself and the two Heads.

The lesson that Meredith did not share with either Head was Astronomy, the closest that Narrows had to a science course. It was allowed onto the curriculum only because astronomical mathematics was mentioned by the ancient authors and was therefore deemed respectable. Most of the lesson-work consisted of mathematical proofs. Master Trundle, who taught Astronomy, would have considered actually looking at the stars to be an activity beneath notice, while news of the latest rocket ships being launched into orbit from Yclau would have fallen under the category of Foreign Heresies.

Meredith had no great interest in foreign activities himself, but he was passionately interested in the history of the Dozen Landsteads, and it was impossible to study the history of the First Landstead without stumbling across pages upon pages of references to scientific matters. He had assembled at home – under his father's proud eye – a respectable library of scientific textbooks, while the school library turned out to have a fairly good collection of scientifiction tucked away in the section for first-ranked students and their classmates. Since he had not previously studied alongside first-ranked students, Meredith had not been permitted to enter the first-ranked section before this term. Now he discovered, upon proudly presenting his Upper Seventh card to the librarian, that at least one other person at Narrows School shared his interest in scientifiction, for several of the books he had hoped to borrow were already off the shelves when he checked. All the other lads learning astronomy seemed to be sleeping through the proceedings, so Meredith assumed that one of the school masters had a taste for thrilling adventures in outer space.

It was not until the second week of term that he came into the nook that held the scientifiction books and discovered Carruthers there, carefully examining each spine, with a stack of scientifiction books already tucked under one arm.

He looked up before Meredith could retreat. Meredith froze, staring at the book in Carruthers's hand, which Meredith had been planning to borrow. He blurted out, "You want to read Fantastic Voyages to the Moon and Beyond?" Then he felt himself turn crimson.

Carruthers said in an easy manner, "I've already read it, about twelve dozen times. Did you want to borrow it?" Before Meredith could think of what to say, Carruthers placed the book atop Meredith's stack of history books.

Meredith thought to himself that there must be a more graceful way of retreating than dropping his books and running. But every instinct in his body – the instincts that he had tried so hard to rid himself of – told him that he could not leave until Carruthers dismissed him.

The Head seemed to be expecting some sort of response. Groping for words, Meredith said, "Master Trundle mentioned that book in our lesson yesterday."

"Favorably?" Carruthers managed to hide any look of disgust at Meredith's inane remark.

"Er . . . no. He was making fun of it, actually. He said that it talked about planets around other stars, which Flaminius said couldn't exist."

Carruthers smiled. "And since Flaminius lived in the seventh tri-century, long before the invention of the telescope, of course he was the expert on such matters. . . . I wish my Government lesson wasn't at the same time as Master Trundle's lesson; I would have liked to have taken it, if only for Trundle's entertaining commentary. What topic is he covering this term?"

"Astronomy in the middle tri-centuries." It was becoming easier by the moment to talk to Carruthers; the Head Prefect seemed absorbed in the conversation, as patient as the Head Master would have been at what Meredith was saying.

"Is he, by all that is sacred? He'll never get the class to the twentieth tri-century at this rate."

"I don't think he wants to, sir," replied Meredith with a smile. "Then he might have to demonstrate actual knowledge of astronomy."

Carruthers actually laughed then; Meredith grinned, relieved. He had been sure, at the beginning of this meeting, that Carruthers was holding a grudge against him for never having turned up for the invited meeting, but now Meredith realized how ridiculous an idea that was. Carruthers had undoubtedly forgotten their conversation in the changing room within a day of its occurrence. No doubt, if Meredith had actually showed up at Carruthers's door, the Head would have found a way to politely quiz him as to his purpose there, and might even have humored Meredith by giving him . . . by giving him whatever it was that Carruthers had offered in the changing room. But the idea that the Head should care whether or not Meredith came to his rooms was patently absurd, as was the idea that Carruthers had been using Meredith as a tool in his war against Rudd. Meredith simply didn't matter that much.

Cheered by this thought, and warmed by Carruthers's politeness toward a third-ranker from a rival House, Meredith opened his mouth to make another light joke . . . and at that moment he heard Rudd, talking loudly as he entered the library, just to show that he could.

Carruthers's gaze flicked toward the door, where Rudd was continuing to raise his voice as he spoke with the second-ranked librarian, who was timidly suggesting that he speak in lower tones. Then Carruthers said quietly, "I'm heading over to the tuck shop to buy some sweets. Would you care to join me? The shop is usually deserted at this time of day, so we'd be able to hear ourselves speak for once." He gave a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

That smile – the same one he had given in the changing room – made Meredith step backwards, as much as the vision of what Rudd would do if he discovered Meredith and Carruthers alone together in the tuck shop. "No," Meredith whispered. "Thank you. Sir. No."

He fled then, his instinct to avoid pain overcoming his instinct to await dismissal. Yet even as he fled, part of him whispered, Failed as a master, and you can't even succeed as a servant?
 

¶ Available as a multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Waterman.

Unmarked (Waterman) - m/m, boarding school, master/liegeman

"Master Meredith, whose entitlement to a last name had not yet been determined by the courts, was sitting in a window-seat overlooking the playing fields of Narrows School when the Third House bullies found him."

In his final terms of school before his university years, Meredith is faced with a host of problems: A prefect who abuses his power. A games captain who is supposed to protect Meredith but has befriended the prefect. And a legal status that makes everyone in the school question whether Meredith belongs there, among the elite.

Unexpectedly, rescue arrives, in the shape of a fellow student who seems determined to right wrongs. There's only one problem. . . .

"Fair play" is the motto of the Third House, but that motto takes on a different meaning when Meredith is secretly wooed by a young man from a rival House.

This novel can be read on its own or as the third and final story in the "Master and Servant" volume of Waterman, a historical fantasy series and retrofuture series inspired by the Chesapeake Bay oyster wars, boarding school rivalries in the 1910s, and 1960s visions of things to come.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

"Let's look at your arm now."

Meredith cautiously turned round. Carruthers stood fully dressed in his school uniform: shoes, trousers, shirt, vest, and a dark blue blazer – blue to represent transformation. No doubt he was entitled to a House cap as well, but he was as bareheaded as always. His hair was the color of yellow cordgrass when sun shone upon it. His eyes shimmered grey like pebbles in a pond. His skin was darker than the usual milky-white shade that distinguished masters from servants; one of the more vicious rumors circulating in the Third House was that Carruthers's parents, who were notorious Egalitarians, forced Carruthers to do servant-work during holidays. Meredith refused to believe the rumor, if only because he could not imagine any servant standing by and allowing Carruthers to do work on his behalf.

Carruthers had turned toward a table beside the students' lockers and was pulling open a first aid kit marked with the symbol of the Red Circle, for Narrows School was one of the few Dozen Landstead institutions that was charitable enough to raise funds for that international, humanitarian organization. "Giving money to the Yclau!" Rudd had once said in anger. One of Rudd's ancestors had drafted the Embargo Act of 1912.

Carruthers – like his father – clearly had no qualms about using foreign technology, for he was pulling out the kit's contents, carefully selected by the school, so as not to contravene the Embargo Act: bichloride of mercury tablets, tincture of iodine, aromatic spirits of ammonia, carbolized petroleum jelly, rubber tubes for tourniquets, adhesive plaster, picric acid gauze, cascara tablets, crystals of hydrated magnesium sulfate, and crystals of potassium permanganate. The last item – used to treat poisonous snake bites – was next to useless for a kit used on a Bay-island school, but some of the school's students who came from the mainland were convinced that every harmless water snake they saw was a venomous water moccasin.

In a prosaic manner, Carruthers focussed his attention on the kit's scissors and roll of bandages. As he cut a small square of bandage off the roll, he said, "Two pieces will do for now, I think, until we've cleaned your arm."

He was holding the scissors awkwardly, and Meredith remembered suddenly that Carruthers had sprained his right wrist at the last footer match. Meredith cried: "Oh, please, sir, let me do that for you!"

A moment later, he would gladly have borrowed Carruthers's heirship dagger and plunged it into himself. Carruthers glanced over at him, but this time he made no comment upon Meredith's eccentric eagerness. He simply handed Meredith the scissors and stepped aside. Meredith cut the final piece, sweat slickening his palms. He could feel Carruthers's gaze upon him.

"There's a bench over there that you might feel comfortable sitting on." Once again, Carruthers was being exceedingly careful in his wording. Meredith went over to the bench; then, at Carruthers's suggestion, he dragged it over to the table where the kit lay.

He felt light-headed as he sat down. The bench – which had been carved with the names of generations of Second House lads – was irregular under his bare thighs. The day had grown warm enough that Meredith had changed, that afternoon, back into his apprentice-aged clothing: short trousers and no blazer, only a vest, with his sleeves rolled up. Now Carruthers had Meredith pull up his right sleeve further so that the cloth would be well away from the cut.

"Fletcher's work, I take it." Carruthers placed his hands around Meredith's forearm and gently pressed the skin next to the cut with his fingers.

"Yes, sir. His cane." Meredith was all too aware now of the firmness of Carruthers's grip, and the tenderness of his probing.

"We'll have to hope, then, that he hasn't been sticking his cane into the ground for picket practice recently." He let go of Meredith. "The cut doesn't look deep, but tomorrow morning, when the school physician arrives, you should go straight to the sanatorium and have him check on you. If you wish, that is," Carruthers carefully amended his command.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"He may want to treat you with tetanus antitoxin. In the meantime" – Carruthers's fingers were suddenly on Meredith's forearm again, squeezing hard – "I'll do what I can."

Meredith held his breath as Carruthers squeezed blood out of the cut, then carefully wiped off the blood with one of the pieces of sterile bandaging that Meredith had cut. "This needs a bit of antiseptic," said Carruthers, straightening up. He leaned over Meredith, reaching for a bottle labelled "Peroxide of Hydrogen."

Meredith forgot to let out his breath. Sitting as he was, his face was only inches now from Carruthers's chest. The strong smell of sweat on Carruthers's body had been replaced, after the sponge bath, with a sweet, salty scent that reminded Meredith of Bay water.

"Hold still," said Carruthers as he pulled back, adding, "if you don't mind." He poured a few drops of the antiseptic onto the wound. It fizzed, biting into the fresh wound. Meredith remained still and silent, as he had done when Carruthers had probed his cut and forced out blood.

He looked up from Carruthers's hands to see that the Head was watching him. "You're a player on the Third House footer team, as I recall?" Carruthers said.

"Yes, sir."

"Ah. That explains it." Carruthers turned his attention back to the cut.

Meredith felt a warm glow cover him then. No further words were needed from Carruthers; the Head did not need to say, "You bear pain well." His sentiments were contained in the simple words, "You're a player."
 

¶ Available as a multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Unmarked.

The Abolitionist (Waterman)

"The servants were scared stiff of him, and the masters were clearly uncertain what to say to a man who came from such an eccentric House. Nothing was different, nothing had changed. And yet everything had changed since Carr met a young foreigner who showed him not the least bit of respect."

When a foul-mouthed, seditious foreigner turns up at your door, what are the benefits of letting him in? So wonders Carr, a young man living in a bayside nation that is troubled by internal battles. In his world, servants fight against masters, tonging watermen fight against dredging watermen, and landsteads eye one another's oyster grounds with greed. It seems to Carr that the only way in which to keep such warfare from entering his own home is to keep very, very quiet about certain aspects of himself which his family would not be able to accept.

But "trouble" is a word that appears to delight the new visitor. He is ready to stir up danger . . . though he may not be as prepared as he thinks to confront what lies within Carr.

This novel about an unconventional pairing features a special appearance by a character from the Slave Breakers series by Sabrina Deane. The novel can be read on its own or as the first story in the "Master and Servant" volume of Waterman, a historical fantasy series and retrofuture series inspired by the Chesapeake Bay oyster wars, boarding school rivalries in the 1910s, and 1960s visions of things to come.

Excerpt

 "Why do they call it Gunners Cove?" his visitor asked.

At that moment, clear as a crack of Bay ice at the end of winter, came the sound of gunfire. In the same instant, the fleet of the House of His Master's Kindness burst round Bentley Point, rushing like Ammippian war arrows through the grey dawn.

"Down!" shouted Carr, envisioning what would come next; for extra measure, he grabbed his visitor and pulled him prone to the deck.

Aware of his responsibilities as the highest-ranked master on the steamer, he raised his torso high enough to see what lay behind him. But no children were on the viewing deck, and all of the masters – heeding the warning of Carr's shout or of the gunfire – had either fled through the doors to the lower decks or were flattening themselves against the deck. Carr turned his head toward the water in time to see, through the railings, an Oyster Navy schooner dash around Bentley Point, hot in pursuit of the skipjacks. The police had evidently not yet noticed the steamboat ahead, for the cannon on the schooner's bow boomed. The cannonball sped across the water and plunged into the river, just ahead of the steamer. The steamer gave out a loud whistle of protest.

The fleet of His Master's Kindness, sensing salvation, sped toward the steamer, the skipjacks' sails full and proud in the breeze. As the fleet passed the bow of the steamer, Carr caught a glimpse of Rowlett, standing in the foremost boat and shouting orders to the captains of the boats behind him. Then the skipjacks were out of sight, hidden behind the squat steamer.

The Oyster Navy sent another rain of rifle bullets in the direction of the fleet. Some of the bullets hit the steamer; women screamed on the lower decks. Then the rifles were silent; the naval police dared not fire at the skipjacks once they were hidden behind a steamer crowded with masters and their families. Already, Carr could hear the masters behind him growling their indignation at the policemen's action.

"You give fucking exciting tours, Carruthers," his visitor said cheerfully as he rose and brushed the dust off his recently bought trousers. "Who's the boys in blue over there? The ones who are looking like the mice got away from the cat?" He pointed at the police schooner, which – in defiance to watermen's tradition – was painted blue to represent the policemen's desire to transform criminals. The schooner had stopped alongside the steamer, no doubt so that the police could check that they had not injured any masters.

"Excuse me," Carr said, his voice more rough than he would have liked. "I need to see whether anyone was hurt on the other decks."
 

¶ Available as a multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): The Abolitionist.

Life Prison (Life Prison)

"I'd heard of guards like this; they existed in prisoners' tales like beautiful princesses exist in the tales of ugly boys. I supposed that I ought to be grateful to have been assigned such a guard. . . . I didn't feel grateful."

In the unmerciful world of Mercy Prison, there is no rule but unending pain. For Merrick, the arrival of his new guard provides hope that he may break beyond the boundaries of his life prison. But appearances can be deceptive, and Merrick does not yet recognize the danger this guard poses to his future.

Merrick's guard is bound in his own special imprisonment. The meeting of these two troubled men will determine their destinies, and the destiny of their nation's life prisons.

This novella can be read on its own or as the first story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison.  Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

He paused at the doorway. "Good evening," he said.

I didn't reply; I've never seen the point of passing pleasantries with one's rapist. He apparently agreed with me that extended conversation would be a waste of time, for after a moment he said, "Will you take off your shirt, please?"

I took everything off. The only reason my clothes were in as good a shape as they were was that I had done my best to keep my guards from tearing at the fabric. I folded my uniform neatly upon the blankets – I always kept the blankets in a corner when not using them, so as to avoid getting the guards' stains upon them – and then, without waiting for orders, went over to the bed-shelf and placed myself in the position I found least painful, on my stomach.

To my relief, he didn't try to shift me. He walked forward, fully clothed, his hand resting lightly upon his dagger. I wasn't sure whether he meant that as a threat or whether this was simply his natural mode of walking. I kept a careful eye on the dagger in any case. When he reached me, he sat down next to me on the bed-ledge and pulled from his pocket a tiny jar.

I stared, fascinated, as he unscrewed it to reveal the ointment within. Under normal circumstances I would have been delighted – even Avery had only used spit – but my mind was still bitter with the disappointment of the morning. I heard myself say, "Did your daddy give you that as a coming-of-age present?"

His gaze flicked toward my face, then away. He dipped a finger into the ointment and then reached over and touched one of the welts on my back.

I jerked and bellowed, more from the shock than from the feel of the fiery ointment. I just managed to keep myself from hitting him. He raised his hand from my back and said, "Did that hurt?"

"Yes, it bloody well hurt!" I said, annoyed at the man's continued penchant for stating the obvious. "What is that, a salt solution?" I was trembling all through now, and was using every curse I knew against myself. I ought to have expected this, yet I hadn't guessed that he was the type of guard who would rub salt in prisoners' wounds.

He shook his head, dipping his finger into the ointment once more. "It's aloe. Lie still; it will sting for a moment before it begins to work."

I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his face, but the proof of his words' truth could be felt on my back; where the ointment touched one of my welts, the pain was beginning to ease. I closed my eyes and let him apply the rest of the ointment in silence.

He had firm hands, like that of a doctor who applies pain in an impassive manner, knowing that the pain will lead to healing. I'd heard of guards like this; they existed in prisoners' tales like beautiful princesses exist in the tales of ugly boys. I supposed that I ought to be grateful to have been assigned such a guard.

I didn't feel grateful. As I heard the sound of Thomas screwing shut the ointment jar, I said, "You were transferred from Compassion because you showed too much mercy to a prisoner, weren't you?"

I opened my eyes in time to see him turn as white as though I'd just kicked his balls. It was a gratifying sight, and I didn't bother to hide my grin.

He said stiffly, "My transfer is none of your business."

"Only your daddy's business, it seems. You'd have been ejected from the guards if it hadn't been for him protecting you, wouldn't you? What do you suppose he would think of you if he could see you acting as nurse to a prisoner who insulted you—?"

He stood up abruptly, and I tensed, waiting. But he simply said, again stiffly, "Do you have any other needs that require being tended to?"

"Only one," I said, rolling onto my side and enjoying the delicious amusement that came from seeing him shift his gaze away from my body. "It's quite simple. It should be simplest of all for you."

His eyes flicked toward my body briefly, then away again. His face said clearly that he expected to regret this question, but he asked it in a dutiful fashion: "And that need is?"

I let the lightness fall from my voice as I propped myself onto one elbow. "Help me to escape," I said quietly.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Life Prison. A shorter version of the novella is available as online fiction.

Milord (Life Prison)

"'You've been very well-behaved here. You deserve a better assignment than Milord as your guard.'"

He was the model prisoner, respectful to his guards and loyal to his fellow prisoners. What no one knew was that he held the key to destruction.

Having pledged himself to assist in a popular movement by prisoners and guards to reform Mercy Life Prison, Llewellyn fears the future, when it is likely that the reform movement will face stiffer opposition from Mercy's Keeper. But Llewellyn's fear of the future is overwhelmed by the present knowledge that he is not what he appears to be. Until now, he has managed to hide his secret and to sway his guards to follow his chosen path.

Now he has been placed under the power of a guard who cannot be swayed and who is intent on bringing Llewellyn under his control. Can Llewellyn escape from his new guard's control? Will he really want to, once he has seen the door open to a world filled with true respect, loyalty, and love?

This novelette can be read on its own or as the third story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

Excerpt

The fingernails of his left hand scraped at the harsh stone of his bed-shelf as he opened and closed his fists repeatedly. Until now, he had been able to fool himself into thinking he was helping his guards. All of them, even the ones who stammered, were men who had broken the Boundaries of Behavior, and who would do so over and over again, regardless as to how well Llewellyn behaved. They were abusers, rapists, men who used their prisoners for their own pleasure.

This being the case, wasn't it better for their souls if Llewellyn consented to their beatings, turning their abuse into something better? Wasn't he benefitting his guards if he did this? Wasn't that more important than the fact that his own needs were thereby being met?

"Maybe that's why I always felt sick afterwards," he murmured. "Not because I despised them, but because I despised me."

He was faintly aware of hot tears running down his face. Tears of contrition? Or of self-centered pity that he would no longer receive what he wanted? That he could no longer corrupt his guards, turning them into worse men than they had been before?

"Oh, Hell," he murmured. "I have always been your servant, haven't I?"

The Vovimian god did not reply; nor did his sister Mercy. Llewellyn could not even remember when he had begun to pray to the gods. His mother's family was of Yclau descent; Llewellyn had been taught to believe in rebirth, not in an afterworld filled with Hell and Mercy and the lesser gods. But there had been no one else he could speak to – no one to whom he could voice his shame and his pleas for help.

"Oh, Mercy," he whispered fruitlessly. "Help me. Send me your Grace."

The goddess Mercy was silent too. Outside the cell, a guard paused to speak low-toned to another guard. It was Sedgewick's voice. Llewellyn had often dreamed of having Sedgewick as his guard, and had dreaded the thought of having him. What would it be like to receive that much pain, and to despise his guard that thoroughly? More and more, as the months drew on, he had felt sick from the awareness that he allowed vile men the means by which to fulfill their base desires. For a few hours – just a few hours, after Merrick's description of Lord Vere – Llewellyn had thought he had found an alternative: a man of honor who would beat his prisoner for just reasons.

Groping for his blankets with his left hand, Llewellyn shuddered at the thought of his self-deception. Would he add much to his sentence of punishment in Hell's domain if he became of the few prisoners at Mercy Prison to succeed in killing himself? Perhaps he should be seeking the longest sentence possible, as compensation for what he had done. He shuddered again as he groped further. The blankets were beyond his reach. His right forearm remained over his eyes, shutting out the light.

Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone.
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Milord.

Pleasure (Master/Other) - science fiction - gay love in a slave society

"Halvar leaned forward. His eyes were the color of an arctic sky. 'I am not a fool, Egon,' he said softly, 'so do not treat me as such.'"

Egon had a position that won him respect, friends who raised his spirits, and lovers who gave him pleasure. Then a man came into his life who would take all that away from him. If Egon was lucky.

As a slave, Egon has already reached the highest position he will ever achieve: he is the household's airship chauffeur. Forced to confront the contradiction between his ideals and his behavior, Egon must make a choice between continuing to pursue immediate pleasure or willingly submitting himself to another man for the sake of a higher goal. What Egon does not yet know is that his guide on this journey into the unknown is hiding a secret that will transform both their lives.

This science fiction novella of gay love can be read on its own or as part of Master/Other, a speculative fiction series exploring the dangers and sweet bonds of power.

Excerpt

Halvar looked up from his datapad. "Sit," he said briefly, and Egon sat in the straight-backed chair opposite Halvar's desk. He suspected that Halvar wanted him seated only because it allowed the Supervisor to stand over him. His theory was confirmed in the next moment as Halvar rose, emerged from behind his desk, and leaned back against the front of the desk, his arms folded as he contemplated Egon.

"Well," he said finally, "you are fortunate. The Chairman received a good price for Karia from the breeding farm – they took one look at the genetics information from your chip's database and decided that your child and its host were worth buying. They wanted to buy you as well, but they didn't offer the Chairman a good enough price."

Egon sat immobile, unable to think what to say. That he had escaped being sold to a breeding farm ought to give him joy, he knew – but that he would never see his child, and that laughing Karia would now be condemned to a life of forced mating and endless pregnancies . . .

"So that matters to you." Halvar's voice was chill. "I had wondered whether it would."

Egon raised his chin and looked Halvar straight in the eye. "We didn't intend for it to happen."

"No, I'm quite sure she didn't intend for it to happen." Halvar's voice remained cool, though quiet. "At sixteen, she was young enough to believe you when you told her that you were infertile. I'm only surprised that you have continued to use that tale, since none of your other bed-mates believed it."

Egon's face grew warm, and he shifted his hands from the arms of the chair to his lap, lounging back in an effort to look relaxed. "I thought it was true. My parents only ever had one child, though they made love often, and they told me that my uncle—"

Halvar's discipline rod shot out to full length; it crashed down upon the chair arms with a crack like lightning. Egon, who would have fallen out of the chair if the rod had not barred his way, went rigid and pressed himself against the chair's straight back.

Halvar leaned forward. His eyes were the color of an arctic sky. "I am not a fool, Egon," he said softly, "so do not treat me as such. If you are a fool, and believe the words you are saying, then I suggest that you rapidly educate yourself. You cared not whether you impregnated that girl and ruined her life – you cared nothing for her or for any other woman you have bedded for the past ten years. All you care for is your own pleasure."
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub), with an online sample: Pleasure.

Love and Betrayal (The Eternal Dungeon) - gay love story set in a Victorian prison

"'I agreed to become a Seeker because I believe you're right that if I find an acceptable outlet for my violent desires – ordering punishments only when it would be in the best interests of the prisoner to receive pain – that will stop me from losing control of myself again. But I'll never enjoy other people's sufferings. You mustn't think I'm a monster like that.'"

As a torturer learns the art of questioning prisoners, he discovers that the word "love" can have a darker meaning than he had supposed.

Idolizing a mentor who teaches him to place first the best interests of his prisoners, young Elsdon Taylor gradually realizes that the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon is hiding a secret. Now Elsdon must confront the man whose work determines the future of the dungeon's prisoners.

In doing so, Elsdon must also confront a demon from his past.

This novella can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Rebirth" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

---

Excerpt

The High Seeker was not in his sitting room when Elsdon let himself into the cell with his key. He found Layle seated upon his bed, looking down at a book in his lap, which was titled upwards. So absorbed was the High Seeker in his reading that a minute passed before he noticed Elsdon. Then his startled look was accompanied by a fumbling motion in his hidden lap.

Elsdon had arrived hot with anger, but now, envisioning what he had interrupted, he grinned. "What's that?" he asked, pointing toward the book and speaking in an overly innocent manner. "A book of love poems?"

"Something like that." Layle's voice was as cool as though he were on duty, but he leaned over and pushed the book rapidly under the bed, before Elsdon could see its title. "My apologies for not awaiting you. I'd decided you weren't coming." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and prepared to rise.

Elsdon, who had come forward in the meantime, dropped Garrett's records to the ground and sat down beside Layle. Layle's breath hissed inward in apparent protest; then his eyes narrowed. "What are you holding behind your back?" he asked.

Elsdon showed him, and the High Seeker's face softened. He reached out to touch the satiny object in Elsdon's hand. "Sweet blood," he said quietly. "I haven't seen one of these since – well, since I arrived at this dungeon seventeen years ago. Where did you get it?"

"From Garrett's love-mate, Chloris," Elsdon said, passing the delicate object into Layle's hand. "It turned up in a shipment of herbs that was delivered to the dungeon kitchens, where she works. She gave it to Garrett and— Well, he's not much of a man for flowers. He gave it to me to do with as I wished."

Layle drew back his hand from the flower. Where he had been stroking the cream-colored petal, there was now a blue mark. "Thank you," he said. "It's lovely." Taking the flower, he leaned over and placed it upon the table next to the bed.

Watching him, Elsdon said, "You ought to put the flower in water at once, or it will die."

"We have a different way of caring for cut flowers where I come from."

Layle began to rise from the bed again, but was arrested as Elsdon abruptly asked, "What's this nonsense about you wanting to transfer my training to Mr. Chapman?"

Despite the firmness of his wording, Elsdon kept his voice quiet and tentative – it was an instinct for him by now, a survival technique he had learned long ago when faced with danger. He wondered, with sudden curiosity, how Layle would react if he acted toward the High Seeker as he had toward the bullies at his school.

Layle was silent a moment, then said, in the same cool voice as before, "It seems appropriate, under the circumstances. I am in danger of losing my reason when around you, as our last meeting showed, and that could easily lead to me violating the Code when I am in your presence. Mr. Chapman is a well-trained Seeker and has been in the Eternal Dungeon nearly as long as I—"

"No!" cried Elsdon. "Layle, you're the best person in our profession in the world – everyone says that. I don't want to be taught by anyone of lesser skill. I want you as my trainer, and I want you as my love-mate."

Layle went utterly still; his fingers, where they had touched the flower, were wet from its juice. Then he absentmindedly rubbed the juice between his fingers as he said stiffly, "Did you consult Mr. Chapman and read the records I directed you to?"

"I read enough to know that you're the right person for me."

Layle let out his breath heavily. "Then you didn't read enough. Elsdon, we should continue this conversation in the next room—"

"I'm tired of talking," Elsdon said, and reached for Layle's lap.

His hand did not reach its goal. Less than a single drop fell from the water-clock in the corner of the room before Elsdon gasped from the grip of Layle's hand upon his wrist. The High Seeker released his wrist quickly. Layle's eyes had grown as dark as though his face were covered with his hood.

Elsdon's memory of the grasp sent waves of pain through him. He said breathlessly, "When you look like that, I remember you're the High Seeker."

The darkness in Layle's eyes disappeared. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but you very nearly made me lose control of myself. You don't want to do that."
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub), with an online sample: Love and Betrayal.

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

Super Star, by S. Wales, Beau to Beau books

A Beau to Beau young adult book

Intro:
Since meeting the teen heartthrob one year ago, Mitch’s life has not been the same. He is certain that when the very famous Kevin Rowe had shaken his hand and looked into his eyes that there had been something unspoken between them, a connection of some sort. Every one of Mitch’s walls was adorned with posters of the international film star, and Mitch had collected anything and everything about Kevin Rowe. As a graduation gift this year, Mitch’s parents are taking him to France for the Cannes Film Festival where Kevin Rowe is making his big debut in the very first film where he is without a doubt the Super Star. When Mitch catches a glimpse of the very famous young man he idolizes, he cannot believe how much he has changed. Kevin Rowe is the most gorgeous man that Mitch has ever seen. Urged by his sister to get an autograph, Mitch feels like a star struck teen approaching his fantasy man and almost regrets coming here for the star’s biggest moment.

About the unicorn:
The unicorn is the only fabulous beast that does not seem to have been conceived out of human fears. In even the earliest references he is fierce yet good, selfless yet solitary, but always mysteriously beautiful. He could be captured only by unfair means, and his single horn was said to neutralize poison. The young gay male, like the unicorn, is fierce yet good, selfless yet solitary, always mysteriously beautiful, and can be captured only by unfair means.

Excerpt:
Kevin Rowe was an international film star and in the eyes of Mitch Sorz, an international superstar. Mitch had seen every one of Kevin’s movies, and had posters of him on every wall of his bedroom. Mitch had graduated from high school this year and as a surprise, his parents were taking him to the Cannes Film Festival to see his idol in his latest film debut.

“Come on, Mitch. We have less than an hour now to get to the airport,” Mitch’s mother, Mary Sorz, shouted up the stairs. Running down the stairs, Mitch ran ahead of his mom, and helped his dad load the suitcases into the car. “Can you believe that Kevin Rowe is my age, Dad? He’s a star. He’s been famous since he was a kid. He’s so lucky.” Mitch’s dad, Frank Sorz, smiled at his son. “I guess he is.” Mitch’s mom came hurrying out. “I called your sister. She’s meeting us at the airport.”

They got into the car and drove to the airport in the city they had called home since Mitch’s parents had married. Orlando, Florida, was the best place to grow up, according to Mitch. There was always plenty to do, with Disney World, Universal Studios, and Sea World all in one place. Mitch watched the traffic whiz by from the car window, and thought about the first time he had seen Kevin Rowe in person. It was just last year. Mitch was seventeen at the time, the same age as Kevin, and Kevin had just finished filming his first major motion picture, “Lucky Star”, and was signing autographs in the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World.

Mitch laid his head back on the car seat and closed his eyes. He had daydreamed many times about that first time he had seen Kevin Rowe in person. Kevin had signed the book about his life so far in the spotlight, and when Kevin had touched Mitch’s hand, Mitch had felt something between them. He couldn’t explain it, but it was there. Kevin had looked into his eyes, and it was if they knew something about each other at that very moment, that they shared something which no one else shared. Since that time, Mitch had seen every one of Kevin’s movies, and had collected anything and everything about Kevin Rowe.

***

Once on the plane, Mitch’s parents had another surprise. “Oh, man, are you kidding?” “Not at all. It isn’t every day that our son graduates from high school.” Mitch’s dad ruffled his son’s hair. They took their seats in the first class section of the huge Boeing 777. “I don’t remember any first class seats when I graduated,” Mandy sarcastically commented. “Well, honey, I didn’t get the bonuses then that I do now,” Mitch’s father reminded her. She rolled her eyes, and sat down beside her brother. “Hey, Mom, they still allow nude sun bathing on the French Riviera, right?” Mandy teased, trying to bait her father into one of their useless arguments. “Now, honey, don’t start.” Mandy giggled, and leaned her seat back.

Fortunately, the trip across the Atlantic didn’t seem to take as long as they thought it would, and before they knew it they were opening the door to their luxury suites in Cannes. “This is so great,” Mandy exclaimed. She and her mother were staying in one suite that was connected to another one that Mitch and his father were sharing. “They are beautiful, honey, and attached. They’re so big, honey,” she said to her husband.

Mandy pulled out her very tiny swimsuit and swung it around. “What do you think, Dad?” “It’s much too small,” her father answered. “It’s very nice, dear,” her mother said, but motioned for her to put it away. “Let’s go check things out,” Mandy said, eager to find her French man. “Go with her, Mitch.” “Oh, I see, I need a man to protect me, huh?” “Now, honey, that’s not what we meant,” her mother half lied. “Come on, kid,” Mandy said, leading the way, determined to exert her leadership.

The place was beautiful, and packed with movie stars and tourists. “Oh, look, Mitch. There’s Russell Crowe.” Mandy was definitely star struck. “Yeah, yeah.” “Oh, look, Mitch, I think that’s Kevin Rowe. Damn, he has really changed since last year.” Mandy dipped her sunglasses to get a good look. Mitch’s mouth fell open. Kevin was gorgeous. He sure has changed a lot more than I have since last year, Mitch thought, suddenly feeling much younger than his eighteen years. Mandy was right. There were girls all around Mitch’s dream guy, trying to get as close to him as they possibly could. “Wow, Mitch, look at the security that kid’s got.” “Hey, he’s my age. He’s not a kid.” “Whatever. Come on, Mitch, let’s get a closer look.”

Mitch walked behind Mandy, almost afraid to look at the man who had been the object of his desire since the first time he had looked into his eyes for that magical split second. The crowd had been thinned out some by the massive display of security surrounding the very famous Kevin Rowe, and Mandy and Mitch were able to get closer to him than they thought they would.

Mitch stopped his sister from going too far. “Mandy, wait,” he said. “What? Don’t you want to see him?” Mitch shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t take his eyes off of Kevin, though. He was definitely beautiful. “Hey, look, Mitch. I think he’s signing something.” Mandy walked ahead and Mitch walked behind her, slowly. Security had opened up a little, to allow Kevin to sign autographs. Still very guarded, Kevin shook Mandy’s hand and handed her a signed book about his new movie. Mitch walked up and shook Kevin’s hand. Kevin looked at him.

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