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  Contents

  About the Editor

  Foreward by Peter F Hamilton

  I. Lucky Bastard by Rick Partlow

  II. Brace Cordova and the Winds of Sinjin-3 by C.Steven Manley

  III. Windham Rex by Kevin G Summers

  IV. Superiority by J Clifton Slater

  V. Star Sleeper by Dean Floyd

  VI. Threat by Cary G Osborne

  VII. Synth by Luke T Barnett

  VIII. Frostbite by Julia Vee and Ken Bebelle

  IX. Echoes of Sonya by Ken Britz

  X. Door Number One by Kalene Williams

  XI. For the Children by William S Frisbee

  About the Editor

  Lauren Moore

  After eight years exploring literature with young writers and defending the sanctity of the written word, Lauren left the high school English classroom and took her teaching skills to the internet as a professional editor. Now she works as a developmental, line, and copy editor, helping authors craft their stories and polish their prose. To date, she has worked on over 150 projects, including a Dragon Award nominee, Order of the Centurion.

  As an editor, Lauren specializes in science fiction and fantasy, and has worked with many authors, including Jason Anspach, Nick Cole, Richard Fox, Tim C Taylor, and Karen Traviss. She is working on her debut novel, co-written with Richard Fox and to be released in December 2019.

  You can find out more about Lauren and her work at laurenmoorebooks.com

  Foreward

  Peter F Hamilton

  The brief they gave me for this introduction was “Where do you think space opera is going?” My immediate response was This is easy: anywhere it damn well wants. Done.

  Oh, you wanted more?

  That’s the thing about space opera—it really does give you the ability to visit any era, universe, time, or dimension. And I’m not even going to attempt to define it; it’s grown too large for that now. If you’ve picked up this book, you just know if you’re reading it.

  I got into space opera way-back-when because of the sheer escapism it offers to the reader, especially to a teenager back in the (ahem) seventies. Of course, back then it was mainly known for featuring galaxy-wide civilizations facing huge conflicts, with plenty of mighty warships shooting the hell out of each other with amazing energy beams, and being led by heroes. Thankfully, we’ve moved on since the glory days of the old pulps, where more often than not books were put together by merging a bunch of short stories originally published in magazines. I’m not dissing them; the stories that came out of the forties and fifties was groundbreaking. But they are of their time. That’s not a get-out clause. Every book can be defined in that fashion. It’s how we chart progress.

  One of the ideas I use as a science fiction writer is to consider how I would explain the current age to someone who lived in, say, 1900—not that long ago. When you stop to look around you, you realize this really would be an age of wonders to someone who’d never had contactless credit cards, vaccinations, jet engines, and the Voyager spacecraft heading off to the stars. And that’s before you start getting into details, good and bad, of our everyday existence. Now extrapolate that into the everyday of a century from now, with FTL transport, direct neural interfaces, von Neumann economics, self-initiated gene edit bodymorphing, and go explain that to your readership as background elements to the real story.

  Some things, however, stay the same. Our 1900-resident would fully comprehend the conflicts, poverty, riches, and political factions that dominate our lives. Throughout history, there’s always been one constant: human nature. That’s where you anchor your story, no matter how far into the future you set it. And that gives us the fundamental appeal of space opera, no matter where and when the story takes place. People in trouble. We’re good at getting into trouble; the condition is endlessly relatable.

  Thus the space opera milieu comes into its own. Yes, space opera takes us a long, long way out of the ordinary, but even there we have problems that resonate with all we see around us. Those pulps of the last half-century were rich with the echoes of two world wars. Nowadays it’s different. For a start our knowledge of the real universe has expanded, and with it, our imaginations. As of yet, there are no canals on Mars nor jungles beneath the clouds of Venus. Shame. But then, in an alternative universe…

  Possibilities. That’s what space opera provides for us. It features whatever the author can imagine, and that’s what gives this branch of the genre its celebrated appeal. It makes welcomes so many authors, so many viewpoints, so many ideas—the foundation of all science fiction. Along with that, the works published today have a maturing sophistication that the older books lacked. Worldbuilding now has become almost a science in itself. Our current generation of authors can construct universes that seem completely functional, to such a degree that during panels we’re often asked which of our creations we’d like to live in.

  Add to that an expanding range of tone. Books heavy on politics, and those almost devoid of it. New twists on planetary romances. Straight-out ultra-hard SF. Space stories in gothic empires, past and future. Fresh takes on intergalactic alien military invasions. Funny, serious, shocking, horrific—space opera encompasses the full gamut of the human experience. It inspires as much as it enthrals. Best of all, it’ll still be around in those futures we can only imagine today.

  Peter F. Hamilton

  Somerset, U.K.

  October 2019

  Lucky Bastard

  Rick Partlow

  Everyone on Thunderhead wound up at the Lucky Bastard sooner or later.

  In Freeport, you could find a dozen other bars, three casinos, twenty-two restaurants of one stripe or another, six hotels, and two “dance clubs,” if you wanted to call them that. But none had the reputation, the atmosphere, the one-stop-shopping aura of the Lucky Bastard. If you told one of the hack drivers at the spaceport to take you where the action was, they brought you there.

  My father had built this place with a loan from Abuelito, the man who’d run the Gallician Cartel back then. Abuelito had been a fair man. A criminal, sure, but this is the Pirate Worlds. You’re a criminal just by living here. Abuelito had made his money from drugs and guns and black-market wetware, just like any other crime boss on Thunderhead, but he wouldn’t turn his nose up at an honest dollar. He’d fostered an entrepreneurial spirit and he wouldn’t bust your balls—or your legs—if you were occasionally late on a loan payment.

  He’d been assassinated, of course. No one that nice could survive on this shithole. My father had died a week later, walking to work. Caught up in the first, but not the last, of the skirmishes to divide the
Gallician territory.

  The Lucky Bastard survived. The bartenders and wait staff and janitors and prostitutes still showed up for work because on a planet like Thunderhead, you either work or you die. Assuming your definition of “work” includes theft, armed robbery, and arson.

  I still came to work, too, because I didn’t know what else to do. The club’s manager kept telling me I didn’t have to be there, that he could run the place just fine, but I was fairly certain he was just looking for an opportunity to increase his percentage of the skim, so I kept coming in—tending bar, waiting on tables, and just keeping my eye on everything.

  That was how I came to be behind the main bar when Eddie walked in.

  Eddie Kuznetsov was a big man, but that’s not being specific enough. Everyone who worked for the Neo Moscva Bratva was big. They didn’t hire small men and women as muscle, not under Sergei Antonov’s management Big was good, massive was best. Eddie was big, leaning toward massive, and so were the two others who trailed behind him. They carried guns, but they were easy to miss amidst all the muscle, and they rarely had to make use of them.

  It was raining, because this is Thunderhead and it’s always raining, and Eddie flipped the collar of his jacket as he came through the door, sending droplets of water spattering away from it.

  “My favorite place,” he boomed, his voice as large and obnoxious as everything else about him. He smiled broadly when he saw me, exposing a mouth full of crooked teeth. He had money; he could’ve had those fixed. It was my considered opinion he kept them that way as a big “fuck-you” to everyone who had to look at him.

  “And my favorite bartender, too!” His arms went up as if he intended to lean across the bar and hug me, but I intercepted the embrace with quick, practiced motions, filling a tall glass mug with the draught I knew he favored and shoving it out to greet him.

  “On the house, Eddie,” I told him, painting on a fake smile. “And my compliments to Mr. Antonov. Please let him know if he’d ever like to stop by, I would be happy to have my people set him up with his own private room.”

  Eddie took the mug and gulped half of it down, but there was something sly about the grin he shot me when the mug came away from his face. His two thugs had spread out, one to each side, watching his back the way they always did. As if anyone in here would be stupid enough to make a run at Eddie.

  “That is why I am here, Kiska.” Russian for kitten. I wasn’t special, though; he called all females either kiska or babushka, grandmother. I thought it was kind of a narrow view of women, but the bratva wasn’t exactly known for its open-minded, progressive philosophy. “Mr. Antonov has decided that a place this valuable to our community should be carefully watched over and managed.”

  “He thinks so, does he?”

  I should have been afraid. If I’d had the good sense God gave a stray dog, I’d have been afraid. Instead, something erupted behind my eyes, a cold, consuming fire. Eddie noticed it and he frowned, possibly since it wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

  “It is not that Mr. Antonov thinks you have done a bad job in your father’s absence, God rest his soul.” Eddie crossed himself reflexively. “He just feels things are still in a flux here in Freeport, and you might be in danger. He’d like to offer you…protection.” He motioned to himself and the other two bruisers. “In exchange for a certain portion of your profits, of course. I believe the number he suggested was seventy percent.” Another grin. “These sorts of services don’t come free, you understand.”

  I should have been expecting this. Predators always pounce when they sense weakness, and my father’s death had given them the impression of weakness. I took a deep breath, pushing a few wayward strands of hair out of my face, trying to buy myself a moment to think. My right hand drifted toward the shotgun Dad kept beneath the bar. I’d had to use it to face down troublemakers once or twice, but what would back down a mean drunk would probably just get me killed with Eddie.

  “Just so I have this straight,” I ground out, trying to unclench my jaw, “your boss thinks I should sign over the Lucky Bastard to him, the place my father worked his whole life to build?”

  “Think of it more as a partnership, Kiska,” he suggested, probably going for smooth and charming but only managing oily and condescending.

  “Tell him the answer is no,” I said, perhaps a bit more harshly than I should have. “We can work something out, but not seventy percent. This is my place. I don’t run it for anyone but myself.”

  I could tell almost immediately I’d made a mistake. Eddie’s face darkened and his fingers tightened into fists, and it was abundantly clear he was taking this personally instead of as a business negotiation.

  “Who do you think you are, suka?” he growled, shoulders tensing under his jacket, like a gorilla getting ready to pound his chest. Suka was Russian for “bitch.” I’d been called worse.

  Okay, calm down, I can handle this. I just have to flirt with him a little, play the submissive girl until I can get him calmed down, maybe get him another drink…

  “You fellas need to settle down, eh? I’m trying to enjoy my fucking drink.”

  I blinked, finally noticing the stranger. It was early yet, barely past dusk, and the normal nighttime crowd hadn’t yet surged in. I was used to our perennials, the folk who came here to get drunk and forget they lived on Thunderhead, rather than the travelers and spacers and smugglers who came in for a good time on their way from one world to another. They were in their regular places at the bar, drinking their regular drinks and saying nothing…and this guy had just slipped into the middle of them, unnoticed.

  This guy was a spacer, or at least he was dressed like one, right down to the stereotypical black leather. It was like he’d decided at some point “I’m going to be a spacer,” and then went out and bought the clothes before he’d even shipped out. I’d seen the like before, but they didn’t usually last too long out here. This one too handsome for this place, with a movie star’s face and swept-back brown hair and eyes you could fall into, if you liked that sort of thing.

  He had a gun, but so did everyone. This was the Pirate Worlds, and if you didn’t have a gun, you were either so poor and pitiful and unimportant that you couldn’t afford one, or you were so rich you could afford to pay other people to guard you. Just carrying a gun didn’t mean you knew how to use one, or, more importantly, when.

  “You need to sit your ass back down and shut up.” Eddie hadn’t even bothered to talk to the stranger. He’d let one of his goons do that, and the man’s Russian accent was even thicker than his.

  The stranger smiled, and for the first time, I wondered exactly who was in trouble. There was something beyond crazy behind those dark eyes.

  “And what if I don’t, bub?”

  He moved, so fast I could barely follow it. One second, the stranger was standing beside the bar, half-leaning on his stool, and the next, he was a black blur and Russians were flying across the room. Bones crunched and flesh smacked flesh and, in the end, the stranger didn’t even have to pull his gun. He had the Russians’ guns and he dumped them on the bar top in front of me with casual disdain, then grabbed the bratva strongmen one at a time and tossed them through the swinging doors, barely missing Bill, one of our regular early drunks, as he walked in.

  Bill sat down, ignoring the ruckus. It had earned a few glances and some muttered curses from the other patrons, but it took a lot to distract some of these people from getting their evening buzz on.

  I stared at the stranger, unable to form a coherent comment for just a second, and he grinned, mistaking my muteness for awed gratitude.

  “I guess those boys won’t be giving you any more trouble.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Deke Conner, Miss…” He tried to offer me a hand and I ignored it.

  “Are you a moron, Mr. Conner?”

  He blinked at the question, his self-satisfied grin slipping, and I pressed on.

  “You know who those muscle-hea
ds work for, don’t you?” I demanded, throwing up the bar’s swinging gate and stepping nose to nose with the man. He was about average height, and I’ve been told I’m tall for a girl, so I was able to look him directly in the eye. “They’re bratva, and they run this part of Freeport, them and the Sung Brothers. You think someone like Sergei Antonov is going to back down just because you beat up a couple of his thugs? Or do you think maybe he’s going to just come back here when you’re not around and burn this fucking place to the ground?”

  I shook my head, turning away from him and leaning against the bar. It was handmade from local wood, polished and beautiful, and it had been Dad’s pride and joy. What the hell was I going to do now?

  “I could go talk to them,” Deke suggested, seeming a bit flustered by my reaction. “I mean, I could convince this Antonov asshole it’s in his best interest to leave you alone.”

  I assessed the man more carefully now that I’d seen him in action, feeling the tension in my brow as it furrowed in thought.

  “You’re military,” I judged. We saw a lot of ex-military types, cut loose after the war and drifting into outlaw territory because they missed the action, missed living their life on the edge. “Some special operation shit, right?”

  “Well…” he trailed off, shrugging in the sort of helpless way that let me know he couldn’t talk about it.

  “And I bet you never ran into a single problem in the war that you couldn’t shoot or punch your way out of, right?” He didn’t have to answer. I could see it on his face. “Well, there’s only one of you, and that’s not enough to shoot your way past the whole bratva. If you want to help me, there’s only one thing you can do.”