If you are looking to explore strange new worlds populated by eccentric casts of characters, ranging from ancient Elementals with powers bordering on magic, to Fleet Captains looking for revenge, or people who think growing really BIG spiders in space is a great idea, then you've come to the right star designation.
Please fasten your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride!
Barefoot and dressed in a simple but elegant Chanel black dress, Rachel Cellini, stared at her reflection in the length of display window that reached from floor to ceiling and offered a superb view out into the valley below. But the view of the soft lights twinkling in the gathering dusk didnāt hold her attention, but rather the stark drawn features that were her own. The eyes were deep set, tired and full of suppressed emotions. Strange mixed emotions that she still hadnāt managed to get a handle on. Her dark auburn hair was, as was her usual want, cut in a soft bob in at the nape. She ran a hand through the kinked wave, brushing the bang that always threatened to fall in her eyes. It dutifully settled back into place. Like her, dutiful. She gave a smile that was more a grimace.
Iām great at writing taglines and teasers [see below] but the hard part is to then translate this into a full length novel. Can I deliver? I guess Iāll find out.
Rachel Celinni is head of one of the worlds largest Bio-tech companies producing AP (Artificial People) and wields considerable power. But emotionally, is resigned to the fact her heart may never know love. She has become a virtual recluse, hidden atop her mountain eyrie. Forsaking any chance at happiness, Cellini has thrown herself into her work.
Jennifer Jones cannot remember. Cannot remember anything about her past. Not who she is, or why she is being chased by the FBI. And only after a chance meeting with Cellini, does she begin to suspect the truth. That not only has she killed someone, but that she is an AP.
DRY CHOKING HEAT. She hated it. It burned into her brain and body, as well as her eyes, despite wearing protective goggles from the glare overhead. The grit was everywhere, even in her damn underwear.
CIA Agent, Karen Stone, crouched down in the tight confines behind the huge boulder leaning in against the solid safety listening to the Special Forces team leader, Sergeant Johnny āJackā Daniels, whisper instructions to the rest of the group. Simmons spread out the tactical data across his knees as others peered in over shoulders, scanning the topography on the aerial and hi-res shots.
Stone wasnāt a part of their team. Just an observer. An unofficial, official observer. She had supplied the Intel and, as such, had come along for the ride, which was the official lineā confirm the kill for the Agency. That was the supposition. At least, as far as the craggy-faced Sergeant Daniels was concerned. But she had her orders, other orders, outside of Danielsā mandate. If these guys couldnāt bring Abu Musab al-Zarqawi down, then she had to. It was up to her to pull the trigger and make the kill.
If they could get close enough that was. Otherwise a couple of QRT Hornet Pave Low Helicopters would be called in as a last resort, and attempt to blow up the side of the mountain in the hope of penetrating the caves Zarqawi and his men were currently hiding in.
Easier said than done.
Out of the mists of time, legends are born. And on the tortured surface of Venus, another legend was meeting her destiny. Major Rebecca Black, strapped inside the troop-transporter carrying raw recruits destined for the surface, watched the approaching planet through one of the few portholes. She'd once heard an old spacer refer to Venus as 'Earth's twisted sister'. He wasn't far wrong. This particular sister had a surface temperature that could melt lead while her swirling atmosphere was something akin to syrup. And then, on her mean days, when the clouds opened up, she rained sulphuric acid on you.
Black shifted in her harness as the transport bled velocity making a slight course correction. The ship was heading not for the planet itself, but the massive structure of the UN's military space station, Joan of Arc, held high in Venus' orbit.
It was easy to understand why Venus killed more colonists than any other planet in the system, yet, despite the statistics, people still affectionately referred to her as the Planet of Love.
Why for Christ's sake?
Sanjay Gupta, a slight man of medium height, had Bollywood good-looks that could turn a girlās head and coax a coy smile. He had soft, liquid brown eyes with uncommonly long eyelashes, sadly, Kalinda Dharma noted, he was also stone cold, and very much dead. She looked down at the man as he lay in repose in the rich loamy earth beneath her booted feet. He looked to all as if he hadnāt a care in the world, eyes wide open, staring up at the vaulted canopy above them.
10 St James's Sq, London
November 26, 1852
Dear Mister Turing,
You arrived in a fluster on my doorstep yesterday without so much as a gentlemenās calling card nor, may I say, wearing anything approaching gentlemenās attire. And an uncovered head in public, Mr. Turing? Tut-tut. But let us set aside how scruffily dressed you were. You then proceeded to badger and cajole my butler, Samson, physically and forcibly gain entrance to my home, and chaotically open and slam nigh on every room door on the premise instead of waiting, as Mr. Samson suggested you do, in the hallway. As any proper person might.