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Jack Forge was transformed from an unwilling Marine recruit to savior of the human race. The only problem: He’s now lost in space looking for the remnants of humanity. Just when he thinks he’s found help, TWO new hostile alien races enter the picture. Can Jack find - and save - humanity or will he forever be lost in space, fighting to survive?

Solomon and the rest of the Gold Squad have proven themselves to be resilient and capable in the most difficult of circumstances. But now, they will be pushed to the limit and their resolve will be tested. Can they overcome dark secrets and unknown players, or is interstellar war inevitable?

Higgens has the best job in the galaxy. Except for the fact that he’s technically a janitor on a galactic mining vessel. When he discovers an unknown alien species, his world gets turned upside down. He will have to find unlikely allies if he is going to save his new friend and help her build a new home. The Mimic and the Space Engineer boxed set contains the first three books in the Space Shifter Chronicles. If you like fast-paced space adventures with engaging, and quirky, characters, you will love Higgens, Mimic, and their adventures in space.

A space adventure from #1 Bestselling author James David Victor Mimic and Higgens have saved the shapeshifting alien race again and hope for nothing more than to settle down and enjoy life. Before that happens, there’s one more battle to fight. Can they turn back the alien horde one more time and find peace? Or are they destined to be ground into dust as so many before them? 

An aspiring space engineer, a shape-shifting alien, and a friendship that might save an entire race. The Mimic Goes to War Omnibus contains the books four through six in the Space Shifter Chronicles.

From the pulpy pages of Black Mask Magazine in the 1920s and '30s, through the film noir era of the 1940s, to today, noir fiction has lured many a reader and movie-goer away from the light and into the dark underbelly of society. Names such as Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and James M. Cain; titles like The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, The Postman Always Rings Twice...these have inhabited our collective consciousness for decades. Humanity, it seems, loves the dark. And within the dark, one figure stands out: that of the femme fatale.

Lacking health insurance when he was diagnosed with cancer, Shawn Speakman asked friends in the science fiction and fantasy writing community to donate short stories he could use to counter mounting medical debt. The result was Unfettered, an anthology offering tales from some of the best authors working today. Now, in Unfettered III, Speakman continues to pay forward the aid he received, raising money to combat medical debt for SF&F artists and authors.

Civilization had fallen. Everyone who survived the plague lived through the Fall, that terrible autumn when life as they had known it ended in blood and chaos. Nuclear-attack submarines facing sudden and unimaginable crises. Paid hunters on a remote island suddenly cut off from any hope of support. Elite assassins. Never-made-it retirees. Bong-toting former soldiers. There were seven and a half billion stories of pain and suffering, courage, hope, and struggle crying out from history: Remember us.     

Back when he was still a student, Stan Goldman and his friends used to play a game of make-believe. “How long do you think it would take Isaac Newton to solve this homework set?” they would ask each other. Or, “If Einstein were alive today, do you think he’d bother with graduate school?”

Perhaps it’s something basic to the nature of late night talk shows, or the topics I’m invited to discuss on radio (space and the future), but there are certain evenings, often when the moon is full, that bring the UFO zealots out in swarms. Collectively and individually, they mob the phone banks, converging to defend the faith, and repulse the big, bad doubter-scientist.

Elvis roams the interstates in a big white Cadillac. It has to be him. Flywheel-bus and commuter-zep riders see plumes of dust trailing like rocket exhaust behind something too fast and glittery for the naked eye. Squint though, and you might glimpse him behind the wheel, steering with one wrist, fiddling the radio dial, then reaching for that always frosty can of beer. “Thank you, honey,” he tells the blonde next to him as he steps on the accelerator.

It all began when my publisher sent me out on what used to be called a Chautauqua circuit—public seminars and panels and rubber-chicken dinners—to promote my books. That’s when I began noticing something very strange about the way people have started thinking these days.

Nobody speaks much about the Talent, anymore—that aspect of our nature we were asked to give up, for the sake of pity. We gave it up, something precious and rare, for the Lentili. Or did we?

The preceding little fable, cribbed from my novel, Earth, is an example of the super-short story, which some call a “drabble.” Collections have been published in the 100 and 750-word categories, but my favorite length is precisely 250.

I earn my living as a writer. In other words, as a magician, shaman, metaphorist. By chant and incantation—and with the active collaboration of my clients, the readers—I create images, characters, alternate realities in other minds. It is an ancient, venerable profession. All tribes have had storytellers, who wove legends round the campfire. My specialty involves epics not about long ago, but times and places yet to come.

Jason let the flimsy message slip from his fingers, fluttering in the gentle, centrifugal pseudo-gravity of the station apartment. Coriolis force—or perhaps the soft breeze from the wall vents—caused it to drift past the edge of the table and land on the floor of the small dining nook.

This section, “Contact,” is devoted to that special, often maligned sub-genre of SF, the think piece. Once upon a time, such tales comprised nearly all of science fiction. An author would ask, “What if?” or “If this goes on?” and head off from there, working out what might result from a given premise.

We survived the transition to a new millennium…when the great digital clock of the common era squeaked, groaned and finally clicked a new digit upon the thousand-year slot. To all the planets and stars, rocks and trees, it was just another day. But none of them love celebrating milestones at the drop of a metaphor. We humans do.

I know, things taste better fresh, not packaged. They say hamburger clogs your arteries and hurts the rain forests. We should eat like our Stone Age ancestors, who dug roots, got plenty of exercise, and always stayed a little hungry. So they say. Still, I balked when my wife served me termites. “Come on honey, try one. They’re delicious.”

“...So you want to talk about flying saucers? I was afraid of that." This happens every damn time I’m blackmailed into babysitting you insomniacs, while Talkback Larry escapes to Bimini for a badly needed rest. I’m supposed to field call-in questions about astronomy and outer space for two weeks. You know, black holes and comets? But it seems we always have to spend the first night wrangling over puta UFOs.