Ever want to explore interstellar space? In these loosely interconnected stories, you're the main character. You're the one who's just discovered a new world, or running from monsters on a derelict warship. You're the one who's feeling the wind of an alien planet on your face, or negotiating a con with an alien crime boss in a crowded station thoroughfare.Read More
You've always wondered why it is customary for captains to clasp their hands behind their back during battle and stand in front of their command chair instead of sitting in it. Sitting makes more sense, as the ship could buck at any time. But you understand now, as you stand with your feet planted on the textured deck of your Imperial battle cruiser, hands clasped so tightly there might be bruises tomorrow--if you live to see tomorrow.Read More
There's not supposed to be sound in space. You know this. It's one of the first things anyone learns before hiking it up to the great unknown: sound doesn't travel in a vacuum, because there's nothing to carry its vibration.
So why, as you and your salvage partner walk through the claustrophobic, black metal corridors of the First Empire derelict cruiser, do you hear ticking?Read More
The air in your helmet is humid with your breath. You stand alone in the depressurized airlock of the landing pod, your mission commander's voice crackling in your ear. But you hardly hear her. You're about to take the first step any human has taken on a world outside of Sol System--Earth's home system.Read More
All voluntary candidates for the Shape-shifter Intelligence Program (S.H.I.P.) have undergone the procedure allowing them to shape-shift and completed preliminary training. This report by Dr. [Redacted] is on the candidates' responses to assuming a role across sexes and genders for one week.Read More
I think there's a. Glitch in the ship's. It's like it's cutting. This is too.
Okay, I've adjusted some. Parameters, what the hell. We're near a black. Hole.
This is stupid. We're doing. A system purge.Read More
I brushed my fingertips over my lover’s cheek, their skin growing cold and damp as the stone beneath me. Above us, swirls of color--dancing reds and shades of blue--ebbed back into the world from which they’d come. The incursion of voices in the corridor faded to whispered snatches of conversations, never fully heard. From stories below, the deep murmurs thrummed. The Hallows was safe again.Read More
Johan Mercio emphatically did not think about the invitation in the inner pocket of his evening jacket, thick and heavy and anonymous. Instead, he adjusted the feathered plume on his hat and sauntered his way through the crowded ballroom of the palace of Venton, wine glass in hand.Read More