Reclamation Series

Ainsley is living a double life. She works a menial job arranged by her father, a successful human-alien liaison. She quietly despises everything her collaborating parents represent. And she performs acts of sabotage against the occupying Qyntarak. In the wake of a botched job that leaves someone dead, Ainsley receives an invitation to take part in an operation on a much larger scale than her own clandestine activities. Drowning in grief and desperate for redemption, Ainsley takes the job and soon finds herself misleading good people. When she faces a choice that would violate her principles in service of the mission, Ainsley must decide who she is willing to betray. EXCERPT The guard swore and Ainsley used the distraction to pull her arm free. She rolled with the momentum and landed on her back. As the guard turned on her, she drove her foot between his legs and he stumbled sideways. Ainsley clambered to her feet. Jasmine already had the guard's stun gun in her hand. She fired a slug into him and he convulsed before collapsing, moaning as he pressed his hand to the slug's point of impact. Jasmine adjusted the gun's settings and fired again. The man shook as he lost consciousness. His head rolled to one side and the lights from the drones shifted to illuminate the area where he would be looking if he were awake. "Now we really have to move." Jasmine tossed the gun aside and started up the old chain-link fence. "There's razor wire up there." "A little razor wire never hurt anyone." "Pretty sure the exact opposite is true." "Relax. I'll cut away a section. It's faster than making a new hole in the fence." Ainsley wasn't convinced but Jasmine had the cutters and was a third of the way up already. Over it would be. The fence rattled and shook as they climbed. A length of razor wire fell to the ground as Ainsley climbed. Jasmine snipped and tossed more segments until there was an opening wide enough for them to go one at a time. Jasmine swung over first and made good time going down. When Ainsley went over, her pack snagged. She told herself not to panic as she shifted her weight but she couldn't pull herself free. "Hurry up." "My bag is caught." "Leave it." "It has my take in it." "It's not worth getting caught over." She was right, Ainsley knew. The few low value items they'd salvaged from the warehouse would pay rent for a week, if that. That was secondary to striking the Qyntarak. Even so, she hated to lose it all. Grunting as she did it, Ainsley pulled the knife from her boot. With a white-knuckled, one-handed grip on the fence, she cut away the straps. When the second strap let go, her weight shifted and she almost fell. She stabbed at the bottom of the pack with the dim hope that she could cut it open and something valuable enough to carry would fall out. From below, Jasmine's voice was strained. "Three seconds and I'm leaving without you." Ainsley exhaled in defeat, sheathed the knife, and started down. She jumped the last six feet, landing in a crouch, and chased after Jasmine into the sparse woods that separated the warehouses from the edge of the city. Without a pack weighing her down, Ainsley was gaining when the unmistakable hum of a grav flyer passed over them. The inhuman form of a Qyntarak dropped through the trees, landing less than twenty feet from Jasmine. Both women slid to a stop. The creature used its six tentacles to steady itself as it found its footing on the four scorpion-like legs that held up its elongated body. Ainsley jumped sideways, taking cover behind the nearest trunk.

After Elle's adoptive father is killed smuggling secrets for the Reclamation movement, she takes refuge in Court's rural village. When the once tranquil life of the village is torn apart, Court and Elle find themselves embroiled in a desperate mission for which they are ill-equipped. If they can locate people they don't know how to find and deliver intelligence they don't understand, maybe they can buy some time for the human race. With Qyntarak hunting them, they'll be lucky just to survive. And if they succeed, it might be too late to matter. EXCERPT Walker began to move but Court kept his grip on him and shook his head no. They waited until the hum was gone and the chirping of birds resumed. The old man was lying on his back with a hole in his chest almost as large as his head. What was left of his torso was covered in gray powder. Blood oozed and mixed with it, creating a sludge in the cavity. Walker steadied himself against a tree and vomited. "You alright?" "I'm fine." "Where's the other one?" They found the body, stiff and unmoving, among the trees at the edge of the road. "It's a girl," Walker said. "Or a woman, I guess." She wore a dull black bodysuit with no visible seams or fasteners. Her helmet was solid with no visor or eyeholes. Court pressed his fingers against her neck and then her wrist. "The suit's cold. I can't feel a pulse through it, and I don't see how to remove it." "We can cut it open with my hunting knife." "No, not out here. We need to get them closer to the village and find Marsh. He'll know what to do." Court was weeks away from his twentieth birthday, almost a year since he became a full adult in the village, and even though the fourteen-year-old Walker thought the older teen knew everything, Court was well aware of how much he didn't know. Like what to do with two dead bodies. "We'll push them on the motorcycle," he said. They followed the road for nearly a kilometer to where a dry creek bed reached the road. It was slow moving with the bodies draped over the bike. Blood trickled from the dead man and Court worried that it might attract coywolves or a bear. He didn't say anything to Walker. If the kid was worried, he wasn't showing it. With considerable effort, they pushed the bike far enough up the creek to be out of sight of the road. It would take the better part of an hour for Walker to return. Court sat on the ground and rested against a tree with his mag gun in his lap. It was a beautiful day. Late summer or early fall, depending on one's point of view. A day too beautiful for death and dying. Eventually, Court heard the crunch-crunch-tap of Marsh with his walking stick and stood to meet the village council leader. "Where are they?" "There." Marsh stopped several feet away and brought his free hand to his chest. "Clint." He knelt and put his hand on the man's face. "I don't understand." "You know him?" "Knew him, yes. A long time ago. Clint Donovan. He was a researcher. Became a collaborator to avoid exile." Walker asked, "What about the woman?" "Impossible to say with that helmet." "We couldn't find any obvious way to take it off," Court said. "I didn't dare take a knife to the suit." Marsh felt around the woman's wrist and elbow. "Wise choice. It might be booby trapped." He studied the suit and helmet for another minute. "Try pressing Clint's hand against the front of the helmet." Walker looked like he might be sick again...