by Joe Pace
“They should have been back by now, regardless.” Banks looked over Exeter’s shoulder, at the end of the Council table, where the Chancellor of the Exchequer sat in his usual spot, with his usual attitude of prim control. If anything, he seemed more smug than ever. He happened to catch Banks’ gaze and smiled broadly, with a slight nod. Banks returned the cordial greeting. “I want to choke that little bastard. He’s had some role in this. I know it.”
“Things happen in space,” Exeter whispered, trying to achieve a confidence Banks knew he didn’t feel. “It’s a big universe, Minister, and not without perils. They could have been delayed by stellar storms, forced to change their route, suffered communications equipment failures, or any number of things, not all of them sinister.”
“No.” His gut was a tight knot. The Harvest’s tardiness and silence were personal. Eustace was with them, sharing their danger, but it was more than that. Their errand was so vital that failure was virtually unthinkable. “No, something’s wrong.” He turned and faced the First Lord of the Admiralty fully. “It’s time we start to consider our next move.” Exeter laughed, choked, reddened. A few glances came his way from the other ministers and dignitaries gathering in the chamber, but he waved them off in feigned good humor.
“What the hell do you propose, John?”
“A rescue mission.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Exeter shook his head. “You would have me send my ships to the edges of the galaxy looking for that tiny pinprick of steel? John, we don’t know where to look.”
“Look with more than your eyes, damn you! You have tracking technology to search for their signal!”
“Lower your voice,” the Duke hissed warningly. Their conversation was beginning to attract closer scrutiny, and many of their counterparts were making their way to their seats, signaling that the meeting was about to begin. Exeter leaned in close, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t take me for a fool. If their signature was operational, we’d already know where they were.”
“We have to find them,” Banks said, more than an edge of despair in his voice. The Duke sighed, and put a thick hand on the Science Minister’s shoulder.
“It may be that there’s nothing out there to find. We may have to accept that the Harvest is lost.”
Author’s Note
Writing the first novel in a trilogy is like embarking on a marathon. After eight or ten miles, you feel like you’ve accomplished something until you look at how many miles remain ahead. Still, a good start is important, and I’m grateful to all of those who have lent a hand so far, knowingly or otherwise.
The Harvest series is a reimagining of the classic Mutiny on the Bounty trilogy as told by Charles Nordoff and James Hall back in 1932, set in the future rather than in the past. It’s a story that has held my interest since my brother Al introduced me to it as a teenager. Those familiar with the work will surely be able to identify the parallels (and departures) I’ve fashioned here. That original text has been at my fingertips throughout the writing of this first volume, and the narrative similarities are intended as literary homage. Other sources of both inspiration and reference have included the journals of Captain James Cook, the Hornblower saga of C.S. Forester, Patrick O’Brien’s Aubrey/Maturin series, and a truly excellent historical investigation into the true story the original mutiny by fellow New Hampshire native Caroline Alexander, titled The Bounty. Also useful, and enjoyable, has been Arthur Herman’s To Rule the Waves: How the British Navy Shaped the Modern World.
Thanks of course go to those who have valiantly read all or some of this manuscript in its various stages of life, and whose critiques I have greatly appreciated, whether I followed their wise advice or not. These include my old friend Robert Burns, with his masterful feel for character development; my new friend Gabe Zentner, with his writer’s attention to craft and his scientist’s impatience with imprecision; Laura Morse Cucci, with her biologist’s expertise; and Jennifer Cyr, with her usual unerring eye for things I’ve done wrong. Holly Scatamacchia and Jeanette Lackey, thank you for your editorial and proofing work. I am also honored and grateful that Christine St. Jean, my intrepid high school history teacher, took her red pen to my work once again. For your indefatigable editing, Kate Kokko, one of your despised sentence fragments.
Bill Coffin, your cover work, as always, is perfect.
I am also deeply indebted to Derrick Eisenhardt and the crew at Reliquary Press for their continued support and assistance. Without them, there’s no book in your hands, or whatever you’re using to read this.
Thanks also to all of you who bought or borrowed Minotaur, my first novel. No, you don’t need to read it to enjoy Lost Harvest. The two are different universes. But you do need to read Minotaur to enjoy Minotaur.
Finally, my everlasting gratitude and love to my boys, Bobby and Xavier, who let me steal away to write once in a while, and to my wife Sarah. She’s the real star of the family, and none of this would be possible without her.
Joe Pace
Summer 2015
About the Author
Joe Pace is a writer of science fiction, historical fiction, and short stories. He studied political science and history at the University of New Hampshire, and his writing reflects his ongoing academic and practical interest in both.
Joe has also served in elective office, taught American history, and worked in business banking. His assorted interests include comic books, pickup basketball, Greek mythology, and the occasional marathon.
As a storyteller, he seeks to weave classic science fiction with political intrigue full of memorable characters in the tradition of Isaac Asimov, Piers Anthony, George R.R. Martin, and Gene Roddenberry.
Joe was born and raised in seacoast New Hampshire and still considers it home, even as he wanders around the country with his wife, Sarah, and their two sons, Bobby and Xavier.
His first novel, Minotaur, was published by Reliquary Press in 2012.