“Devika wants to do some planning,” Keltie said.
Eddie nodded.
Then he followed Grayson, Keltie, and Devika into the depths of the warship.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Author's Note
As I write this author’s note, I’m shaking my head because this is Book 4 in the series and I haven’t even written Book 3 yet.
Oh boy.
But this book was fun. Compared to the first three books, Eddie’s book is a bit more emotional. Sure, there’s action and dead bodies and stuff, but this is really the story of a man who becomes a reluctant hero.
Latinos in Space
At the time of this writing, there just aren’t that many strong Latino heroes in space opera. In science fiction, actually.
I’m not Latino, but….
Spanish and Latino culture have been important forces that have shaped my life in unbelievable ways.
First, I started speaking Spanish when I was in seventh grade. My guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to take for an elective. All the cool kids were in shop class or home economics. I wanted to be with all the cool kids. But because of the alphabet, I got the last pick.
It was Spanish or French.
In what would be the most important decision in my life that I didn’t know I was making at the time, I chose Spanish.
The class was okay. Basic. Any thirteen-year-old doesn’t really pay attention in a foreign language class. I did the homework and spoke Spanish like Tarzan, but I did okay.
Oh, and by the way, I went to Ferguson Middle School (yes, the same Ferguson that the entire world now knows because of the Michael Brown shooting here in the US). When I went there, the school had two buildings—the main school and a separate annex. The annex was a two-story building with four classrooms.
Turns out that the Spanish classroom was just below the classroom for the gifted children. I never tested well-enough to get into the “gifted” program.
But I came into constant contact with the gifted program teacher, Miss Clark. That year, I happened to place second in the state spelling bee, one of the first (I believe) in the history of the middle school to do it. It impressed the faculty, and because my grades were stellar (straight A’s, baby), I found myself with an invitation to the gifted program.
I struggled in it. Absolutely and positively, I struggled. But the friends I made lasted for life, and for the first time in my life, I learned a confidence that I never had before. I thank Miss Clark for that. And it was all because I decided to take Spanish 1.
Here’s another story for you…
I continued taking Spanish throughout middle school and high school, and I excelled at it. I double-majored in Spanish in college. I studied abroad in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and Panama—an incredible experience that I will never forget.
It was in college that I met my wife, Diana. She’s Latina and came to the states when she was young. Spanish helped me communicate with her family. I wasn’t just some guy who didn’t bother to learn the language that was most important to my wife. I invested in building that relationship, and even though I say some pretty silly stuff sometimes, it’s a great asset.
And here’s yet another story, and the most important of all.
When I graduated college, the United States was in the middle of the Great Recession in 2009. Honestly, I was burdened with student loans and didn’t know what I was going to do. I wanted to be a writer, and the best job prospect I could find was working in a (damned) call center.
Until I interviewed at a national insurance company in Des Moines.
I had no idea what the hell insurance was other than a card you put in your glove box to certify to the police that you had it.
I was hired as a claims adjuster, investigating car accidents and determining who was at fault.
It wasn’t a glorious job, trust me. Far from it.
But in the first month of the job, the associate director pulled me into a room. He had a copy of my resume. He noticed that I had a degree in Spanish asked if I liked speaking it. I told him I did. He then told me that the company was starting a unique pilot team—one of the first in the nation—of Spanish-speaking claims adjusters. If a Spanish-speaker was involved in a car accident and couldn’t speak English, someone needed to interview them and find out what happened. Especially in states like Texas.
Now keep in mind that I had been studying Spanish for almost a decade. I had taken classes, studied abroad, spoke it at home with my wife-then-girlfriend and her family. I knew Spanish, but I wasn’t fluent. At all. If only you could have heard my accent!
But something told me to say yes to the associate director.
When I did, he gave me a raise on the spot and told me to enjoy my weekend.
I couldn’t believe it. I had gone, in the span of a month, from unemployed to a somewhat decent paying job.
And when the Spanish claims came, I wanted to jump out the window. I remember getting so frustrated. I wouldn’t be able to understand the Spanish-speakers on the other side of the phone, and they couldn’t understand me. I messed up my conjugations. I used the wrong words. People got angry with me.
But in the span of a few months, I got better. Much better, so much that I became fluent. And when I say fluent, I mean it. I spoke Spanish all day, every day.
And I got to know people. More than the generic cultural statements that they teach you in those silly textbooks in school.
I got to know people in their worst times of need.
And I learned a lot about people. Latinos especially.
Firstly, I learned that they’re the most hardworking people in the history of humanity.
Second, I learned that they value family above all things.
And third, I learned that when you speak a language, even when you’re not native, you share a spirit. I had people write thank you notes to me, curse me out, and everything in between. But it was all in Spanish.
I did so well in that job that I got promoted very quickly.
Spanish opened all kinds of doors for me. If I can speak honestly, Spanish has done more for me than my own African-American culture.
My wedding was in Spanish. I officiated my wife’s best friend’s wedding in Spanish. My first home was exorcised in Spanish (which is where the exorcism scene came from). My wife owes her entire identity to Spanish. And my daughter owes half of her identity to it.
So that’s why I guess I felt it was time for me to write something with a Latino in the lead role, so that more people can understand what a great culture Latinos have. Sure, I’m not Latino, but come on, who cares?
Namesake
Eddie Puente is named after my favorite Latin Jazz musician, Tito Puente. I discovered Tito’s Salsa Meets Jazz album when I was in high school, and it was like a gateway drug into Latin Jazz and later, Brazilian jazz. I also thought it was kind of cool that Puente means “bridge” in Spanish—and that’s what Eddie stands for. He’s bridge between his family and the life he wants for them.
And totally check that album out if you like jazz. The two garbage ships in the story, The Repetition and The Cariñoso, are named after my two favorite tracks on that album.
But What About Garbage?
So, a confession. I always had this secret desire to learn about the waste management profession. But I never got around to it. I stumbled across some YouTube videos that showed what happens at transfer stations and how garbage is recycled. I was fascinated. I thought, hey, what if I made a character a garbage man?
After all, Galaxy Mavericks is about six ordinary people. Not soldiers or doctors or starship captains.
Ordinary people.
What other profession can you think of that is more humble and behind the scenes than waste management? Combine that with a space opera and I was intrigued.
Who’s the next Galaxy Maverick?
You already met him!
Let me introduce you (again) to Smoke, an innocent man turned into a super soldi
er against his will…
Turn the page to read a preview of Book 5, Solar Storm. It’s available for sale now.
Preview of Book 5, Solar Storm
CHAPTER 1
Smoke pushed a thick piece of sheet metal off his stomach.
Somewhere, something was burning. He tasted the fire in his mouth. Thick char.
He was lying on the ground. A concrete slab floor. His head pounded.
He was in an airplane hangar.
It was burning.
Half of the roof was gone, exposing trees and a blue sky filled with helicopters. Their whirring was so loud he couldn't think.
He tried to step forward, but he tripped over a metal beam that lay on the ground.
He landed face-first.
The metal beam—it had been in the roof. And he had been on the roof just a few minutes ago. Before it collapsed. Before he was swallowed into metal and dust and debris.
His arm felt light. He groaned.
He was missing something.
His rifle.
Damn.
He needed his rifle.
He peered through the rising dust, choking, looking for any sign of it.
None.
It was gone.
He pulled himself up and pushed through the rubble. Outside, police sirens blared louder and louder.
He had to get out.
He tapped the visor that covered his eyes. It flashed orange, and zeroes and ones streamed across his vision before fading into nothing.
He brought his fingers up to the side of his head, just below the temple, where the visor ended. His cybernetic implant was still there, a glowing red half-orb that was smooth and warm to the touch. He pushed it in, and he felt a clicking inside his skull.
Nothing happened.
Click.
Nothing.
Click. Click.
Nothing.
He felt the other side of his head, where the other implant should have been.
His fingers dipped into a hole filled with wires and circuits.
The other implant was gone.
Without it, he wouldn't be able to use his programming. No heat maps or GPS.
He cursed, dropped to the floor, feeling around in the dust and metal.
A sharp edge of something tore the skin on his arm. He didn't feel it, but looked down to see skin peeling away from circuit, steel, and bone.
The room was enveloped in smoke and heat. He had to get out.
Searching for the implant was useless.
He broke into a run, climbing over the rubble.
A spotlight swept over the hangar, and he dove under a rafter to avoid it.
The light moved up and down and across the hangar, across the rubble, across the fire, across the darkness.
It was looking for him.
He moved faster this time, like a shadow, running and climbing his way through the hangar.
A gust of wind blew. He saw a jagged opening leading outside to the tarmac.
Tarmac.
He remembered now.
He had been perched on the roof.
He had been shooting.
At his target.
But she got away.
There was chaos. So much screaming.
And then it all went fuzzy.
He gripped his head as he ran for the opening.
Just a little further….
His boots cracked against glass and concrete.
The light outside grew brighter than the fire inside.
He broke out, into the balmy jungle air.
But then his eyes focused and he slid to a stop.
“Freeze!” a voice shouted.
Two dozen policemen surrounded him, their guns aimed at him.
All around, the spaceport tarmac was covered with commotion. A box-shaped spaceship lay overturned against the side of the hangar, on fire. A fire truck sprayed water on it. The flames jumped into the sky, coloring the trees orange and yellow.
The policemen did not look happy to see him.
He put his hands up.
Someone forced him to the ground and slapped handcuffs around his wrists.
A burly policewoman pulled him up.
“Whoever the hell you are, you're under arrest for the murder of at least twenty people and disturbance of the peace.”
As the woman pulled him up and ushered him to the police car parked on the tarmac, Smoke’s head swam as he tried to figure out just what the hell had happened.
CHAPTER 2
GALPOL Special Agent Ryan Miller stood at the edge of the Coppice Southwest Regional spaceport tarmac, watching the chaos. The service hangar was on fire, throwing up huge columns of smoke into the sky. Paramedics tended to victims lying on the ground in their own blood. Ambulances raced back and forth across the tarmac. News helicopters circled the palm trees, swinging back and forth over the rainforest. A group of around three dozen innocent people were quarantined in the spaceport, looking out of the tall windows at the police cars and fire trucks with fear and curiosity.
He dug his hands in his trench coat pockets and whistled.
What a mess.
His eyes still burned with sleep and he desperately needed a diet soda right now. He’d been on call to worse planets, and GALPOL could have picked a more dangerous territory for him, but something about this jungle planet made him wish someone else had been in the rotation.
Someone stepped next to him.
“You’re gonna be up all night with this one, Miller.”
Lieutenant Laura Fisher folded her arms, her blue and silver uniform glowing against the fiery night.
“I figured that,” Miller said, tipping his fedora to her. “I can’t go to sleep for more than three hours without somebody in this freaking galaxy calling me.”
“I wouldn’t have called unless I needed you,” Fisher said.
Miller yawned. “What do we got?”
“The biggest attack on Rah Galaxy soil by a domestic terrorist, for starters.”
“Great.”
“Where do you want me to start?” Fisher asked.
“How about we start with the killer?” Miller said, looking at Fisher. She was watching a police car. Someone was inside, but he couldn’t tell who.
“Please tell me you found the killer,” Miller said.
“We found him,” Fisher said.
“Then maybe I won’t be here all night,” Miller said.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Fisher said. “Right now we have more questions than we have answers.”
“Why?” Miller asked. “You got your man. Galaxy Court’ll prosecute him, we’ll all pat ourselves on the back, pretend that this galaxy isn’t broken and ride off into the sunset together. Case closed. What else you got for me, Fisher?”
Fisher motioned for him to follow.
They stopped near a silver casing lying on the tarmac.
Fisher crouched down and pulled a pen out of her chest pocket. She pointed to it.
“Ever seen this kind before?” she asked.
Ryan crouched down with her, squinting in the firelight.
“Definitely a rifle casing,” Miller said. “Coil type. But no, I haven't seen this type before.”
He cursed.
“Dammit, Fisher, you weren’t kidding about me being up all night, were you?” Miller asked. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a photo.
“We’ve got about twenty of them scattered across the tarmac. The rest are inside the bodies of the victims. But we’ve never seen bullets like this. That's an automatic GALPOL referral per the protocol. You know, because of all the weapons manufacturers that have been running rampant lately.”
Miller tapped a flashlight button on his camera app and illuminated the casing. It was silver, smooth, and as long as his pointer finger.
“Doesn’t match the profile of most guns we’ve seen,” Fisher said.
“I’ll have to run it through our database,” Miller said. “Could be anything, from anywher
e.”
“That’s why we’re deferring this to you guys,” Fisher said.
“I want all of the casings when you’re done,” Miller said, standing. “That'll help Ballistics.”
In the distance, the police car began to drive off.
“Where’s it headed?” Miller asked.
“Southwest Station,” Fisher said.
“Good,” Miller said. “Reserve an interrogation room for me. I want first crack at this bastard.”
***
Want to read the rest? Grab your copy of Solar Storm at your favorite retailer by clicking here: www.books2read.com/solarstorm.
About the Author
Science fiction and fantasy on the wild side!
Michael La Ronn is the author of many science fiction and fantasy novels including The Last Dragon Lord, Android X, and Eaten series.
In 2012, a life-threatening illness made him realize that storytelling was his #1 passion. He’s devoted his life to writing ever since, making up whatever story makes him fall out of his chair laughing the hardest. Every day.
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Also by Michael La Ronn
Also by Michael La Ronn
Android X Series
Android Paradox
Android Deception
Android Winter
Eaten Series
Season 1
Season 2
Season 3
Nutrizeen
The Last Dragon Lord Series
Old Dark
Old Evil
Old Wicked
Modern Necromancy Series
Death Marked
Death Bound
Death Crowned
Sword Bear Chronicles Series
Theo and the Festival of Shadows
Theo and the Solstice of Dreams
Garbage Star (Galaxy Mavericks Book 4) Page 12