MWA Conference

It's on!

Great dinner tonight, great panel. After listening to the speakers, I'm thinking about writing a magazine piece--except it won't have aliens in it.

Unless they're Maryland aliens, that is.

Happy Star Wars Day!

Enough said.

If you've no idea what I'm talking about...

May the Force be with you.

Anyway.

Flattery Will Get You Everywhere With Me

A few minutes ago, I decided to take a break from my world to check my email for new online MWA conference registration forms (yep, there were). Anyway, I'd received a couple of emails from people I'd never heard of, so I started to delete them. Just when I was about to hit the button, I noticed something--one was from an author wanting me to review her book. She'd found my name on the city library's roster of local authors. I don't remember signing up for that, but then I don't remember doing a lot of things.

First time this has happened to me. It is flattering, to say the least. And if you have to ask whether I'll accept, please review the title of this post.

Werewolves In Space

And vampires. And mages. And of course, aliens.

As you've probably gathered from the above (not to mention the post immediately below this one), Jahannan's Children is set in Maqu, Melera's home galaxy. Folks have asked me why I put the three Earthers out there. Answer: it's fun. It's different. And there are some interesting themes to explore. Alien-ness, for one. What it feels like to BE an alien. I got an inkling of it on my first trip to the Far East. It was more than not being able to speak the language. That was a given. The shock was to realize I had no clue how to decipher the writing.

Think about that. I don't speak any of the European tongues (including British). But all of these languages are written using the Roman alphabet--to me, a familiar frame of reference. With my smattering of Latin, I can usually figure out the gist of whatever it is I'm reading. German's a little harder, but it's still doable. In Japan/China/Korea, etc., I had no frame of reference. Without it, there was no way I could figure out anything. I couldn't even figure out where to start.

I'll be honest--it scared me at first. It was like being a baby. I couldn't speak, I couldn't read. I could only communicate through gestures. Oh, I know what you're thinking--they speak English, so what was I worried about? But you see, that's not true everywhere in those countries, even in Japan. And there were times I was in places where no one spoke or understood English. So I was limited to pointing, nodding, shaking my head, scissoring my fingers to simulate someone walking, things like that. The saving grace was that those kinds of gestures are used by almost all human cultures, so my needs were understood--eventually, anyway.

So all things being equal, what if I was in a place where these "universal" gestures meant nothing? Putting my hands together, placing them against my cheek, tilting my head and then closing my eyes--means sleep, right? But what if it meant something obscene? How would I know? If the reaction is anger, what if my confused expression is taken for further insult?

That's the situation facing Parker, Kurt and Garrett in Maqu, Melera's home galaxy. She was the alien in TAW, but now it's our Earth-born zots who are the aliens. At least Melera had the opportunity to study Earth culture before leaving her island base, but the other three didn't get that luxury before blasting off to Maqu. For all of them, Melera is the key to their survival. That's fine for Parker. She loves him. But Kurt and Garrett are skating on some seriously thin ice. They know damned well the only reason Melera hasn't spaced them is because of the tryst, and what their deaths might mean for Parker.

Here's a question for you. How would you feel if you were forced to place your life in the hands of someone who, but for the love of another, would kill you in a heartbeat?

Balticon 43, Comin' Atcha in 4-D!

Balticon is always held over Memorial Day weekend, starting Friday night and continuing until Memorial Day--24 hours of food, festivities and fun! I love the RIF (Reading is Fundamental) auction. I always make sure to buy something. Not only is it for a good cause, but a very good friend of mine runs it, and has done so for donkey's years. Folks donate stuff, and it gets auctioned off. Simple. Do you remember the TV series Lost in Space? Last year I bought a life-sized cardboard Robot. Coolishness!

Can't believe Balticon's so soon, though. Made my hotel reservations today, skidding under the wire less than 72 hours before the room block closes. I live only 20 miles or so from Hunt Valley, MD but when you're up half the night partying, it's hard to get up the next morn to make your 8 AM session. It's worth the bucks to stay at the hotel.

So anyway, I think there'll be a Rapid Fire Reading this year (check my Readercon post if you don't know what that is) and if so (and if I'm not too late to sign up) I'm going to read a little something from the sequel to The Alien Within. What's that you say? Of course there's a sequel. Jahannan's Children is the working title. Here's a snippet from Chapter 2:

From the corner of her eye, [Garrett] studied the alien sitting inches away and wondered for the umpteenth time why in the Mother’s name would Parker want to follow her. She understood his attraction—Melera was six-foot two and built like a superhero. But there was something reptilian about her, from her slit-pupiled, disco-ball eyes to the way she moved, with the lethal grace of a python stalking its prey. That she had all the charm of a crocodile didn’t help. Garrett was sure Melera would just as soon slit somebody’s throat as say hello.

See you at Balticon 43!

The Rest of the Prologue is History, Too

As promised, here's the rest of the Prologue. I was going to divide it into three or more pieces, but then said what the hell. Maybe I'll turn it into a short.

Frank was too young to have total control over his panther. His rage and terror at being hunted had triggered only a partial change. Frank had no claws to help him climb trees or fangs to slash and tear through exposed flesh. His only advantages lay in his speed and human intelligence, which was why the dogs had repeatedly lost his scent.

God, I wish Park were here!

He might be able to outsmart the dogs, but Frank’s human pursuers had far more experience at hunting than Frank did at being hunted. The men chasing him usually figured out his tactics before he’d fully understood them in his own mind.

He was also getting tired. They’d been tracking him for almost three hours now.

Frank hadn’t gone twenty feet further before he heard the violent whoosh of steel jaws cleaving the night air. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid the bear trap. With a snap, the cruel teeth bit into his leg, ripping through sinew and crushing his fibia into shards.

Howling in pain, he fell to the earth and tried to pull the trap’s jaws apart. When he touched it, fresh agony tore through his hands and burned its way deep into his arms. Frank understood. The thing that had caught him wasn’t a bear trap. It was a were trap, forged from a steel and copper alloy specially designed for snaring werepanthers. Copper to a panther was like silver to a werewolf—a poisonous, lethal metal.

The dogs found him first. They dashed around, baying and nipping at his legs, forearms and shoulders, and tearing at what was left of his clothes.

“Cleo! Herk! Junior! Back off!” a man’s rough voice shouted.

By now Frank was nearly unconscious, unaware of the dogs being pulled away and the coarse hands fondling his furry body. Anonymous voices floated faintly around him.

“Well, well. Looks like we caught us a big ol’ kitty,” a second voice said.

A third voice sniggered. “Looks more like a big pussy to me.”

“What we do now?” the second voice said. “Take ‘im to the Judge?”

“Naw,” the first voice snapped, the one who’d called off the hounds. “Judge ‘ont wanna see dis piece a’ shit.”

“Mebbe, but he’s gonna want proof,” the third voice said.

“I’ll give ‘im proof,” dog-man muttered.

Frank felt himself being lifted from the ground until he was nearly sitting up. A bottle of acrid, foul smelling something was shoved under his nose. It brought him back from wherever he’d been. He fought against it but its pull was inexorable, hauling him to wakefulness like a marlin snagged from the depths of the sea. Someone tipped his head back and poured liquid fire down his throat. Gagging and thrashing, Frank’s pain finished the job started by the moonshine.

“Thassa boy, wake up, now—thassa a good pussy boy. Git the trap off him Jake,” dog-man ordered.

Frank screamed when the steel teeth were pulled apart. Fresh blood pumped from his wounds.

“Shaddup, pussy boy. Cain’t nobody hear you, anyways,” dog-man said. A heavy weight settled across Frank’s thighs. Then a hard slap stung his fur-covered face, followed immediately by a second and then a third. “Look a’ me,” dog-man shouted and grabbed him by the throat.

Frank’s eyes popped open. Staring back at him was the ugliest man he’d ever seen. Starting at his scalp, a whitish, mangled scar ran along the left side of the man’s face, bisecting his eye and ending just below his lip. His grin showed numerous broken teeth, and his breath smelled fouler than the moonshine he’d been forced to drink.

Frank knew the man grinning down at him. Everybody in the county knew Pitt Jackson.

“Wantcha ta see how I’ma git Judge his proof,” Pitt said while reaching behind his back. Frank’s eyes widened when he saw the Bowie knife’s huge, heavy blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight. He struggled to escape, but it was no use. He was too weak.

“Hold still, boy,” Pitt chuckled. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Frank screamed a second time when he felt the knife slice into his upper chest. No ordinary metal blade, it was made from the same steel and copper alloy as the trap that had snared him.

The skinning seemed to go on forever.

Then he was losing consciousness again. The copper poison was doing its work, relentlessly slowing the young boy’s heart.

“Good job, Pitt,” Frank barely heard the second voice.

“Why thankee, Jake,” he heard Pitt reply. “Judge got his proof, an’ I got me a new rug.”

Three voices sniggered. “What now?” the third man’s voice came faintly to Frank’s ears.

“Dogs’re hungry,” Pitt said.

The Prologue Is History

The past might be prologue, but that doesn't mean a prologue has to stay in the past. Sometimes it gets booted into the future. But not this time.

So why am I deleting TAW's prologue? Let's just say four or five readers have expressed their opinions on whether it belongs in the story and from what I've heard, it's time for me to buy a saddle (old joke).

Anyway, it's here for your reading pleasure and I hope you'll like it. It's a bit on the long side, so for the next couple of days I'll be posting excerpts.

P R O L O G U E

Frank Suggs ran for his life.

The night was oppressively hot and thick, typical for Arkansas in mid-summer. Frank fought his way through the heavy moist air, its stickiness coating the insides of his nose and mouth like glue. Gasping, the fifteen year-old werepanther stumbled over roots, scrambled over rocks and waded through shallow streams. Stones and twigs littering the ground bit into his feet. Low-lying brush constantly snagged his already tattered clothes, while branches from their taller tree cousins whipped across his face. From the forest floor, the full moon’s cold light flickered through the canopy like silent laughter.

Frank hardly noticed any of it—the laughing moon, the slashing foliage or his pain.

As he ran, he wished Parker Berenson, his friend and blood brother since they’d been eight years old, was here to tell him what to do. Park would know how to deal with the fuckers chasing him. Frank had seen his best friend talk his way out of more shit than anybody he knew. And if that didn’t work, his buddy had a mean left hook that would take care of the rest.
A dog’s barking yanked him out of his thoughts. It sounded a lot closer than it’d been before. The yelping of two other dogs joining the first one nearly froze him in his tracks.

No! he thought. Frank tried not to panic, but the hounds had picked up his scent again and were in full cry. He put on a burst of speed. A thorn bush branch ripped off a patch of his greyish-tan fur in passing.