Author: E.M. Hamill
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 8/7/17
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Genre: science fiction, space travel, third gender, interspecies sex, kidnapping, genderfluid, space opera
Dalí Tamareia has everything—a young family and a promising career as an Ambassador in the Sol Fed Diplomatic Corps. Dalí’s path as a peacemaker seems clear, but when their loved ones are killed in a terrorist attack, grief sends the genderfluid changeling into a spiral of self-destruction.
Fragile Sol Fed balances on the brink of war with a plundering alien race. Their skills with galactic relations are desperately needed to broker a protective alliance, but in mourning, Dalí no longer cares, seeking oblivion at the bottom of a bottle, in the arms of a faceless lover, or at the end of a knife.
The New Puritan Movement is rising to power within the government, preaching strict genetic counseling and galactic isolation to ensure survival of the endangered human race. Third gender citizens like Dalí don’t fit the mold of this perfect plan, and the NPM will stop at nothing to make their vision become reality. When Dalí stumbles into a plot threatening changelings like them, a shadow organization called the Penumbra recruits them for a rescue mission full of danger, sex, and intrigue, giving Dalí purpose again.
Risky liaisons with a sexy, charismatic pirate lord could be Dalí’s undoing—and the only way to prevent another deadly act of domestic terrorism.
E.M. Hamill © 2017
All Rights Reserved
Human beings are assholes. I should know. I’d become one in the last few months.
You’d think the near extinction of our entire species after the pandemics and global poisoning our last world war inflicted might let us all pull together. Even with galactic war breathing down our necks, when almost everyone realized the human race constituted less of a threat to each other than some of the other things out there, we continued to be dicks.
Those attitudes started problems—in particular, Europan attitudes, of the New Puritan variety. I no longer possessed the self-control or sufficient fucks to avoid adding fuel to their fire.
His voice floated over the excited din of the crowd and the pregame show on the holographic screens above the bar.
I sighed and turned my head. The Team Europa-jacketed hulk next to me exuded a cloud of loathing against my empathic nets. I raised one eyebrow at him.
“Really? You can’t come up with anything more original after fifteen minutes of shit-talking?” The conversation behind me started as a diatribe against the rally for third-gender rights, held outside the arena and glimpsed on the main holo screen. I didn’t pay attention to either until the comments got louder and were meant for my ears.
“How very twentieth century of you.” I downed another of the six shots the robotic bartender dispensed in front of me. I wasn’t looking for trouble, only anesthetic. Outside, a cluster of media bots interviewing star athletes had driven me into the bar to hide. The presence of mechanized paparazzi still unsettled me. I didn’t want them in my face.
The annual Sol Series tournament games between Mars and Europa bordered on legendary for their savagery. No one took rugby as seriously as a gritty Martian colonist or a repressed New Puritan, and the bar overflowed with both, waiting for the station’s arena to open. Spectators gathered around us in the bar, drawn by the promise of a fight, glittering eyes fixed on us. My empathic senses drowned in their excitement and fear, even with the numbing effects of synthetic alcohol.
He invaded my personal space and leaned closer, face centimeters from mine. His breath carried a trace of mint and steroid vapors. Great. A huffer, his molecules all hyped-up on testosterone. He stood over a head taller than me, about twenty-five kilos heavier. His fists would do damage. His minions stood at either side, more meat than smarts. Neither spoke. Their mouths hung open while he harassed me, and I expected shuttle flies to crawl out at any time.
“You’re nothing but an A-sex freak.”
“Better. Still lacks originality.” I threw back the last shot. “How about androgynous freak? Hermaphrodite? No, those words are probably too big for you.”
The titter of laughter from the crowd only pissed him off. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Technically, I can’t. But I can fuck anybody else in this room. Can you?”
Shocked laughter rose from the circle of spectators. The guy clenched his fists and flexed his muscles. I continued, “Do I scare you?” I swiveled on the stool to face him and changed posture, crossing my legs in demure modesty. My voice rose into a husky, suggestive alto as I leaned one elbow on the bar. “Or do you want to find out what’s under my kilt?”
I hit a nerve. His eyes went blank, black, and his rage flooded over my senses. The crowd gasped and took a step back. Minion One caught his rising fist and spoke. “Jon, don’t you know who…”
Jon’s lip curled. “It’s an atrocity. It should have been killed at birth.”
“I prefer the term changeling.” I stood, and the circle around us got wider. The potent mix of hormones surged through my bloodstream as they altered my chemical makeup and bulked strategic upper body muscles. I let a cold smile form on my lips and dropped into a Zereid martial arts stance. Jon took half a step back as I became more definitively male in ways he recognized. “Oh, go ahead and hit me, by all means. A good fight is almost as good as sex.”
“Break it up.”
The crowd parted into nervous brackets with security’s arrival. Caniberi lumbered into the midst of the circle with the boneless roll space-born started to get after generations in orbit. He cast a sour eye in my direction.
“Dalí, why is it always you?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
The constable growled at me. He turned to Jon. “You can’t play in the tournament if I throw you in the brig for violence. Move out.”
Jon stared at me a minute longer. The threat of not getting to beat the hell out of some hedonistic Martians made him reconsider. He and the minions moved away, but he threw one more sentence in my face like a javelin.
“You’ll be alone, changeling.”
The truth in his words knifed through me all the way to my gut and cut me deeper than any microsteel blade. “I’ll be waiting.”
Caniberi squinted at me as the crowd began to disperse. “Dalí, do I need to talk with the Captain?”
“No, sir. Leave my father out of this.” He’d dealt with enough from me already. My mother was now away on the diplomatic mission I’d been suspiciously—but rightly—deemed unfit to assume. Without Mom there to buffer the uncomfortable presence of my grief between us, Dad was lost.
“One of these days you’re going to push the wrong buttons and end up hurt, or worse. Some things the medical officer can’t fix.” His gaze softened. “Drinking and getting the shit beaten out of you won’t bring them back.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. One of the best officers on the station, Caniberi had known me a little over a decade, and he never hesitated to kick my ass if I deserved it, no matter what gender I chose at the moment. This time, he just stared at me with an odd expression. His pity broke in tepid surges against my senses.
“Get out of here. I don’t want to arrest you again.”
I turned and left the bar. With the bots still hovering outside, I ducked my head to foil their facial recognition apps and fought my way upstream from the arena.
The shakes hit me in the aftermath of the hormone flood. The synthetic alcohol in my system warred with my normalizing chem levels and sour nausea threatened. I grabbed one of the rails lining the corridor and took several shuddering breaths as my muscles cramped, rearranged, and settled back into the lean, sexless frame where I am most at home.
The crowd jostled around me and headed toward the game. My empathic nets buzzed dully with their anticipation and excitement, but the sense of being watched pushed at the back of my mind. A familiar presence tripped a memory and an emotion.
The watcher knew me.
I turned my head. The Zereid made his way toward me, head and shoulders above everyone else, long, muscular limbs wading with passive grace through a river of human bodies as the crowd shifted for him. An eddy of cautious glances swirled and vanished downstream.
Oily quicksilver eyes without lids narrowed, their shape signifying the equivalent of a smile. His resonant voice buzzed in my ears. “He is the size of a cargo bot, you know. Even the arts we learned can’t change gravity. He might kill you.”
“I won’t let it go that far.” I shrugged. I actually hoped I’d bitten off more than I could swallow this time.
But the presence of my childhood friend undid me. A lump rose in my throat, pressure in my head, and I closed the distance between us. He gathered me in against cool flesh. I was locked in arms capable of crushing a human like a piece of foil but which held me with careful tenderness. Against his enormous chest, I felt like a small child, even though in developmental terms, Gor and I are the same age. His concern brushed my mind with affectionate familiarity.
“I see you, Dalí,” he murmured. “I mourn with you.”
I breathed in the scent of Zereid. Gor smelled of his homeworld—rain and earth and copper clung to his leathery turquoise skin and short, downy fur even in absentia. Homesickness washed over me.
I’d lived on Zereid most of my life. My mother, Marina Urquhart, served as ambassador for fifteen years. Dad’s career required he return to Sol Fed, and rather than separate our family, Mom resigned her appointment. My differences were clear, even to my third-gender mother, but there, we were aliens. I wondered what it would be like to have more friends who blinked.
When we got back to our own kind, I found out I was still an alien.
Gor pulled away. In the tarnished silver of his eyes, like antique mirrors, my unkempt reflection stared back at me. His dismay at my mental and physical state, impossible to miss, sighed against my mind.
“How did you hear?” I said.
“Your mother. “
His head cocked. “I tried to come sooner, but the travel permissions into the colonies are daunting.”
“No, I understand.” I wanted to sit and talk with Gor. I eyed the bar, but couldn’t go back in there yet. “Come on. We can go to Dad’s quarters. He’ll be on the bridge.” My own cramped space wouldn’t accommodate Gor’s height or his bulk.
We squeezed into the private lift and rode up to the command deck. My thumbprint opened the door to the Captain’s suite, and Gor made a sound of wonder as he ducked through the port.
Three levels of transparent alloy shielding overlooked the U-curve of Rosetta Station. Shuttles buzzed in and out of bays like honeybees in the hydroponics domes, ferrying passengers to huge starliners docked on the outer limbs.
“An inspiring view.” Gor gazed out the window.
Ochre planet-shine from Jupiter’s face illuminated the room, the swirling storms in the gas giant’s atmosphere familiar to me now. I never found them beautiful, only an echo of the chaos in my head. I dropped into one of the chairs facing the viewport.
Gor eased himself into the seat opposite me. “You’re in crisis, Dalí.”
I couldn’t hide anything from him. Even if I wanted to, he was a telepath; his empathic senses much more attuned than my own modest abilities. Our friendship spanned far too many years, our trust well established. Lying to him would betray our oath of crechemates, a Zereid custom similar to old Earth tradition of blood brothers.
“Today would be the second anniversary of our wedding.” I stared at my hands. I still wore a ring on each of them, the ones Gresh and Rasida gave me.
“I remember. The love between you and your mates deserves celebration.”
Triad marriages with two members of the same sex and one of the opposite were common. The female population had not rebounded as fast as the male. But mine was the first triad marriage to include a changeling spouse under the new laws we helped to bring about. The legislation was both praised and vilified by hundreds of other citizens while we exchanged vows beneath the domes of the lunar capitol. My parents, Gresh’s mother, and Gor celebrated with us. Rasida’s mother refused to attend the wedding of her only daughter.
The three of us had been inseparable, invincible. Without them, I staggered, incomplete.
Our child would have been three months old now.
“Don’t say it.”
Gor’s eyes elongated in confusion. “What?”
“That they wouldn’t want me to be like this.”
“I did not come here to admonish you for grieving.”
I gave a short laugh. “What did you come here to scold me for?”
“For ceasing to live. Abandoning the larger destiny for which you trained.”
“Ambassador?” I dug a vape out of the pocket of my coat and thumbed the switch, inhaling illegal chemicals deep into my lungs. His gentle reproach against my empathic nets rebuked me without a word.
“You were sure of your calling as a peacemaker six months ago.” Zereid reverence toward conciliation is, ironically, unforgiving and unbending.
“I was certain of a lot of things then.” I exhaled a cloud of spicy mist. If any of the scent remained, I’d catch hell later for vaping in Dad’s quarters.
“There are always those who work against peace, even in their own hearts. As you are doing now.”
“I don’t know if I believe in peace anymore.”
“Because you do not possess it.”
“Stop feeding me platitudes, brother.”
He spread six-fingered hands wide. “What would you have me do? Tell me. Your pain is mine to share, beloved friend. Allow me to help you. Your rage is fearsome but undirected. You point it at yourself.”
“I was supposed to die, not them.” I cursed the terrorists who missed their target by eight minutes. When I decided not to address the media bots and chose instead to hold a private farewell with my family, I put myself ahead of schedule. I should have died with them. Even though the bastards failed to kill me, they destroyed me.
“Come home.” Gor waited for me to answer. I didn’t. He continued. “Madam Ambassador thinks Zereid would be a place of healing for you. You can study at the temple with me again, be teacher and student. This year’s crop of younglings is a challenge.” His vocal pipes fluted in laughter. “As we were.”
“That isn’t much of an incentive.” A grin tried to tug at the corners of my mouth, stiff and out of practice with the expression. “I’ll think about it.”
“Will you?” His doubt hovered between us.
The port slid open again and my father thundered in—Captain Paul Tamareia—“The Captain” to everyone on the station, even me at times. I stood at automatic attention, swaying a little. Gor rose too.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “And turn that goddamned vape off.”
I complied. “A misunderstanding, sir.”
“Misunderstanding, my ass. Six shots of the synthetic piss that passes for whiskey says it wasn’t.” He turned to Gor and bowed. “Welcome aboard Rosetta Station, honored friend. Forgive me for not greeting you first.”
“Captain Tamareia.” Gor bowed back.
“How long will you be staying? I insist you use my quarters as your own. Stop by the constable’s office and he will register you for my door. I’m afraid most of the cabins are small, and we’re overcrowded with the tournament.”
“My thanks, sir. My travel clearance is good for the next two weeks, and then I must return.” Gor nodded at us. “I should collect my belongings now. I will go to your constable on the way back.”
“It’s good to see you, Gor.”
“You as well, Captain.” He put one enormous hand on my shoulder. “Dalí, please think about what I said.”
Gor let himself out. Dad and I both understood he made a graceful exit so we could shout at each other in peace. Zereids don’t carry a whole lot of baggage. They don’t wear clothes.
“Did you need to pick a fight with the number eight of the bloody Europan rugby team?” He tossed his personal data device on the table. “Do you even know who he is?”
“Other than a prick, no.”
“Jon Batterson. Does the name ring a bell at all?”
“Batterson.” I blinked through mental processes made sluggish by the vape. “As in President Batterson?”
“Light dawns. The heir apparent to his self-righteous little robotics empire.” He ran both hands through his hair. I inherited my dark-brown waves from him, but Dad’s customary high-and-tight showed little hint of curl. Mine now fell to my shoulders in a shaggy, tangled mane. “Do you realize the mess I would have had to clean up if you really let loose on him? Even if he is built like the ass end of a freighter, you could put him on the injured list.”
“It wasn’t my intent.”
“From what Caniberi told me, you were about to unleash hell on him. You sure stirred up some crap. The president is coming to the game tonight. The constable didn’t know who he was either, or he might have thrown you in the brig to prove a point.” He sat down with a thud on the steel bench and sighed. “Dalí. Come here.”
I sat next to him and braced myself.
“It’s been six months. Your leave from the diplomatic corps is finished, and if you don’t return, you’ll be dismissed. This has to stop. When you go back to your life, you’re going to encounter people like Batterson on a daily basis. Your reputation and your career are at stake. You can’t do this anymore.”
“That life’s over.”
“Don’t throw it away. You did so much in so short a time. You have a gift for understanding, and you will be a formidable ambassador. Sol Fed needs you in the negotiation chamber at the Remoliad. Luna is a better place because of your work.”
“Because of Gresh’s work. Because of Sida and our child. They were my reasons for everything. I’m not sure I feel as strongly for the rest of the human race.”
“Then you need to find another way to deal with their deaths. I won’t watch you destroy your future. You worked too hard for it.”
“Tell me how, sir.” My fury rose. “Tell me how I can deal with it because I’m looking for an exit.”
He stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I rose and stalked away. He started to call after me, but the communication tones went off.
“Captain Tamareia, report to the bridge. The president’s shuttle is incoming.”
“On my way. Dalí!”
My Writing Process
I have always been an unapologetic, total, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pantser when it comes to the writing process. When I started getting serious about publishing my work, I listened to other writers whom I admire and made an effort to attempt an outline and character development in advance. I thought, “They’re so good; there’s got to be something to this outlining thing!”
So, I tried Scrivener and Snowflake: both amazing tools, but not for me. I hand outlined without enough success to garner enthusiasm—I’m just too eager to get to the good stuff.
Sometimes, these attempts yield a clear direction or a bare-bones plot, but I still go back to improvisation for my most intense writing sessions.
My stories and characters are often inspired by a flash of “what if…” That glorious chaos of ideas usually gets brainstormed by hand in a spiral notebook. I have a dozen two-sided pages of dead-ends, ideas, and flow-of-consciousness gobbledygook that eventually became Dalí.
Sometimes, characters introduce themselves to me in dreams, and I feel compelled to write about them to find out who they are. But my favorite moments are when the character I thought I knew suddenly spins about in the midst of a scene, looks me in the eye with a smirk, and says, “I’m not who you thought I was.” That’s the magic of improvisational writing: a subconscious, unbridled flow that meticulous plotting seems to stifle for me.
I do, however, research like crazy. My search engine history often includes items on the stereotypical list of things you don’t want Homeland Security or your employer to see! Being a medical professional in my everyday life gives me insight on body processes, illnesses, and injuries, but even I still have to look up stuff that could be a little…weird.
My favorite late-draft tool by far is AutoCrit. This gem of software helps me so much in the late drafts before I let my betas see them. It picks out passive voice, dialogue tags, overused words, and the dreaded “-ly” ending words so you can address them and improve the writing where necessary. It even tells you where your action lags. AutoCrit also gives you a comparison to published fiction so you can see how it measures up. It won’t work if you’re writing in dialect-heavy prose, but for most fiction it’s a fantastic resource.
The absolute requirements I can’t do without in my writing process are critique partners who write in my genre, and a competent editor.
I have several partners I implicitly trust with feedback on my work at different levels. There are only two or three alpha readers who get to see that horrible amalgam of first draft nonsense that’s just barely whipped into shape. They know story structure, plot and my chosen genres, and I ruthlessly cut and slash based on their feedback. My beta readers go more in depth with plot holes, punctuation and grammar, and things that just don’t work.
An editor—not your beta reader, close friend, or family member, but a professional—is the best thing that can happen to your writing. I’ve had the great fortune to work with some fantastic individuals, both developmentally in early draft stages and pre-publication.
Any professional editor worth their salt is not cheap. If you want your work to stand out from the dreck that crosses an agent’s desk on a day to day basis, or rise to the top in the vast ocean that is Kindle Direct, your friend who was really good in English class is not the same as an editor who truly knows what they’re doing. Quirks and weird phrasing that my betas missed, like my modifiers detaching from their subjects, detracted from my writing and I didn’t even see them until they were fixed at my editor’s notice.
That being said, there are times when beta feedback or editor’s notes conflict with the story you’re trying to tell, or with the character you’ve built from a breath of an idea. Don’t be afraid to stand up for the things that are intrinsic to your creative vision.
I attempt to write every day, but my work schedule and mental acuity don’t always cooperate with that desire. Even on the days when my creative energy is too low to bring ideas into permanent form, I’m thinking about my plot and my characters or re-reading what I’ve done. On the days I am able to write, I don’t kick myself if I don’t make a huge dent in my goal for the first draft. As long as my word count increases at the end of each session, I call it a successful day.
There is a method that will work for you, whether it’s plotting or pantsing. If it results in a finished, tight story that keeps your reader’s interest, it’s working.
Meet the Author
E.M. Hamill is a nurse by day, sci fi and fantasy novelist by night. She lives in eastern Kansas with her family, where they fend off flying monkey attacks and prep for the zombie apocalypse. She also writes young adult material under the name Elisabeth Hamill. Her first novel, SONG MAGICK, won first place for YA fantasy in the 2014 Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Fiction.
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