SeniorSource

By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

For seniors who need a comfortable place to live, SeniorSource fits the bill. Zero-g, medical care, even a work exchange program for those who can’t afford it otherwise.

For one former NYPD detective, SeniorSource provides a lifeline. But if he fails to solve his latest case—the murder of a young boy on the Moon—in 24 hours, he might find himself downgraded, or worse, back on Earth. In other words, dead.

“Kristine Kathryn Rusch is one of the best writers in the field.”

—SFRevu

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Aug 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386703365

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

New York Times bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch writes in almost every genre. Generally, she uses her real name (Rusch) for most of her writing. She publishes bestselling science fiction and fantasy, award-winning mysteries, acclaimed mainstream fiction, controversial nonfiction, and the occasional romance. Her novels have made bestseller lists around the world and her short fiction has appeared in eighteen best of the year collections. She has won more than twenty-five awards for her fiction, including the Hugo, Le Prix Imaginales, the Asimov's Readers Choice award, and the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Choice Award.   

Book preview

SeniorSource

SeniorSource

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

WMG Publishing Inc.

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SeniorSource

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About the Author

SeniorSource

The little boy lay face down in the dirt. Because the brown dirt was fine, loose, and powdery, I thought he had landed outside the dome, but that didn’t quite match with what I was seeing. His body was intact which it would not have been if it had been exposed to the harshness of the actual Moon.

Then something wet collided with my shirt, spoiling the you-are-there illusion, pulling me back into my workstation at SeniorSource.

I yanked off my goggles and made sure I let go of them gently so that they’d float beside me. I also let go of my workstation so I floated as well. A half a dozen other people were clinging to their stations, their faces hidden beneath the goggles that covered their eyes, ears, and nose. A few folks had strapped themselves in so that, in their excitement, they wouldn’t let go and drift into some equipment on the other side of the work area.

My goggles weren’t the only thing floating beside me. So were half a dozen other drops of some brown liquid. They had gathered near my left side, as if they were a phalanx of brown marbles lined up for an attack.

Marvin, I snapped, your coffee’s gotten away from you again.

Marvin Pierce peeked at me from the doorway leading into the community kitchen. He floated sideways, hands gripping the edge of the door, only his bald pate, eyes and nose visible, like a Kilroy-was-here drawing, something that one of the oldsters here had started sketching on the walls. (You couldn’t call anything a ceiling or a floor here—the place constantly rotated.)

Marvin’s blue eyes were twinkling. As he used his hands to propel himself into the VR work lab, he grinned like a naughty three-year-old.

Which he hadn’t been in more than 125 years.

Sorry, he said in a tone that let me