If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion.– SAH
FROM M.C.A.HOGARTH: Who Is Willing
Alysha Forrest is looking forward to her assignment as the Songlance’s newest lieutenant, particularly when it gets her placed as the liaison to the ship’s water environment crewmembers. Interfacing with the mermaid-like Naysha and the alien Platies who serve as the ship’s navigators is an exhilarating experience, and all the other officers on the crew are eager to welcome her into the fold… all of them, except one. Mike Beringwaite, the overbearing ensign who ruined their leadership retreat years earlier, has somehow made lieutenant too. When a routine problem in the water environment throws them together, Alysha has to decide how willing she is to forgive him for what he did, whether she can work with him again, and most importantly, if she can trust him–with her life. The disaster at the leadership retreat is nothing to the one they have to handle now. If they can…. (Prequel) Alysha’s Fall 1. Second 2. Who is Willing 3. Sword of the Alliance 4. Either Side of the Strand
FROM NATHAN C. BRINDLE: A Fox in the Henhouse (Timelines Universe Book 2)
Delaney Wolff Fox is a spy. A cute spy. A deadly spy.
A spy you want at your back when stuff gets real.
From a palatial office in Johannesburg, to a fancy whisky bar in Sydney, Australia, to a beautiful private beach in southwest Florida, to the great and wild city of New Orleans, Captain Delaney Fox, United States Space Force Marines (Intelligence Division) finds herself beset by assassins at every turn, while first saving an alien government’s valuable artifact from the South African cartel that’s stolen it, and then being assigned to guard said artifact while it completes a world tour, on loan from that same alien government.
But like the proverbial fox in the proverbial henhouse, you can count on Delaney to complete the mission and come out with the prize, intact and in hand – even if the “farmer” isn’t all that keen about her doing so.
FROM DAVID COLLINS: The Bug War
The Ogres seemed to be ‘monsters,’ but they were monsters that could be reasoned with—as long as you understood what motivated them.
Several new aliens have now joined the fray:
One that seems helpful and friendly, but something from its past may have kicked over a hornet’s nest—a really nasty threat that hasn’t been seen in centuries.
A new race may be the most dangerous they have encountered. They have a weapon against which they have no defense.
To top it all off, a massive swarm of intelligent insectoid aliens has been expanding, and their former enemies, the Meduala, are now squarely in the path of the bug’s expansion.
Keith has to solve this new puzzle carefully, and none of the pieces are fitting. Time is running out.
FROM MACKEY CHANDLER: The Long View (April Series Book 14)
Despite their animosity, North America seems cowed into leaving Home and the Kingdom of Central alone for the moment. They are begrudgingly honoring the treaty Singh and Love hammered out in Hawaii and allowing free passage to Home. That doesn’t mean they’ve lifted the sanctions on Home trade. The European powers are as friendly as needed to do trade but have never apologized for the lies about the origin of the last flu pandemic. That’s already fading from short-lifer’s memories. They can’t understand why long-lifers just won’t let stuff go. It helps that North America has other problems like Texas aggressively nibbling away at their border. Quebec has always been patiently waiting for them to be too busy elsewhere to repress them, and Mexico is quietly slipping away to Texan influence without a shot being fired. China, never really homogenous is too fractured into competing regions and interests to be a threat for a while. Jeff may have tipped them over the edge to that but it wasn’t hard.
In the relative peace holding for a moment in history, the habitats and the Moon are progressing past survival to making life comfortable. While many on Earth think the Spacers survive on Earth-grown food they’ve progressed to an abundance of essentials and are working away on the luxuries. They are acquiring extra-solar real estate beyond the Earthies reach.
Heather and her peers, April, and Jeff, plan a Grand Ball to celebrate life, friends, and allies. If the timing doesn’t work for the Earthies that’s their problem. It’s time to enjoy what they’ve accomplished and make plans for the future long put off. Soon enough, short-lived politicians will be replaced by those who don’t remember what happens when you rile the Spacers up. But for now, they can enjoy the moment.
FROM RACONTEUR PRESS ANTHOLOGIES: Or All Will Burn: At All Costs (Raconteur Press Anthologies Book 32)
Whether in a murky forest, the void of space, or under the bed, the innocent are often in peril. Hazards abound in the outer darkness and only a parent stands between it and their children. Here are tales of parents wiling to endure whatever perils they must to ensure the safety of their kids, at all costs.
FROM CAROLINE FURLONG: Debris (The Rise of the Discarded Series Book 1)
Strength has many facets….
Lost in thought, Ayar’s mind was on his invention that would allow premature griffin cubs to survive. He had no inkling he would rescue a creature that he suspected might be rational. Who would put one of their own out to die like that?
Rhys Callahan wanted to avoid a point of known pirate activity. Then he flew directly into one, and his ship was shot out of the sky. He managed a terrifying crash-landing on the nearest planet only to find himself among regressed humans who thought he was a god. When they realized he wasn’t, they became angry. Then they chained him to an upthrust boulder as a sacrifice to their local deity.
Neither Ayar nor Rhys ever expected to meet one another. But now that they have, maybe together they can fight for both their kinds. First, though, they need to learn how to communicate – and hope that neither of them is killed before they can get their enterprise off the ground!
Welcome to the first book in the Rise of the Discarded series!
FROM HOLLY CHISM: The Godshead (Modern Gods Book 1)
Food and drink for sale; snark for free…
It’s hard to be a god nobody believes in, sometimes. Especially when one spends their days trying to quietly go about his or her life in a world that barely remembers the myths surrounding the old Greek gods, but where some religions still follow the old Norse gods.
And some of the Norse gods are getting more dangerous: Loki, the trickster, has lost the last of what passed for his sanity, and needs to be helped, or stopped. One of the two. And no one seems to be up to it.
At least, not alone. Working together, they can avoid the worst of Loki’s tricks, and maybe even solve their problems.
A tale told from several points of view.
FROM KAREN MYERS: Broken Devices: A Lost Wizard’s Tale (The Chained Adept Book 3)
Book 3 of The Chained Adept
CHAINS WITHOUT WIZARDS AND A RISING COUNT OF THE DEAD.
The largest city in the world has just discovered its missing wizards. It seems the Kigali empire has ignited a panic that threatens internal ruin and the only chained wizard it knows that’s still alive is Penrys.
The living wizards and the dead are not her people, not unless she makes them so. All they have in common is a heavy chain and a dead past — the lives that were stolen from them are beyond recall.
What remains are unanswered questions about who made them this way. And why. And what Penrys plans to do to find out.
FROM MARY CATELLI: Winter’s Curse
Who but a fool would linger after Zavrien laid his curse? Ill luck can kill — and all the more in Zavrien’s enchanted, endless winter, haunted with ice giants and frost fairies.
When the soldier Gareth is cursed, the young wizard Perriel learns how dangerous lingering can be.
But she can hold out a sliver of hope for breaking the curse — if it doesn’t break them first.
Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.
So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.
We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.
If you have questions, feel free to ask.
Your writing prompt this week is: GRASS
According To Hoyt 
Vote time:
https://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/298796-which-work-about-a-trip-shall-we-read-in-august
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“Well, he’s not running for re-election so I wonder how long it will be until he’s under the grass.
“Hey where did these Security people come from?”
[Very Big Crazy Grin]
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Grrr. Beat me again. Oh well, need to inventory the popcorn and bourbon, anyway.
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I think whoever has the keys to that Twitter account is in more immediate risk, but can’t fully disagree.
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“An Irishman is never drunk as long as he can hold onto one blade of grass to keep from falling off the earth.”
Not Irish; still, might be a good day to test that; seems like time to touch grass.
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Thought this might bring this group out of hiding. Follow-up to one a long time ago:
“Are you sure, Carys?”
“I am, Zornitsa,” the sorceress replied, watching Princess Renata and her retinue retreat across the scorched remains of the grass.
“Father will not be pleased, Lady Carys,” a new voice added as a blue mech armed with a large battle axe joined the Amethyst Sage. “Sending his daughter’s head and the twisted remains of Grimhilt back to King Friedrich would be a sure sign that he chose the wrong kingdom to fight – or that’s what he would say if he were here anyway.”
Carys simply nodded, making note of the disgust in Prince Henri’s voice as he clarified that those thoughts were not his own. She believed him; both of King Philippe’s sons were far more honorable than their father. Yet per his agreement with Queen Beatrix to spare Master Amadeo and Lady Jacinthe she was here fighting for that rapacious fiend.
“We have won the day, Your Highness. That will have to suffice.” Carys finally said, her tone as cold as one of her ice spells.
“It will for me at least,” Loire’s second prince concurred. “If Father asks I will remind him of that Grimhilt is designed for both arcana and agility while Lady Zornitsa is designed for the former but not the latter. No offense intended, Lady Zornitsa, as I certainly do not mean to imply you are as sluggish as our Martels.”
“One cannot deal in both knowledge and facts without acknowledging unpleasant truths, Prince Henri,” the Amethyst Sage responded. “I only would have objected if you had disparaged me rather than point out what is obvious to any engineer.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Lady Zornitsa,” Henri replied with a grin though his expression soon turned serious. “Of course now that you are here it is just a matter of time before he calls Sir Vincent up from Eisenstein, Lady Carys. I will do my best to prevent you from meeting in battle.”
“I appreciate your chivalry, Your Highness, but it is not necessary,” the sorceress replied, her tone still frosty. “Vincent is no moping fool and Lady Ashleshia is not a foe to be taken lightly even for you, Prince Henri.”
“I know. It would not be the first time he and I crossed blades,” Henri said, casting a quick look around the battlefield. “I always look forward to facing him for my own sake as much as anything. He is a worthy rival.”
“He is so much more than that…” Carys thought, though her only outward expression was a quiet sigh. Chasing off those thoughts before they could grow she finally spoke up: “Then let us return to base and prepare for our next move, Prince Henri.”
“Oui, madame.” he replied, saluting her and Zornitsa with his mech before they departed the ruined battlefield.
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Lady Isabella sat with the calm of a shepherdess on the grass, taking up her sewing to wile away the hours until sheep needed to be rescued from folly, or led back to the fold.
As Adelaide handed her the cloth, Sylvie took it and supposed there were worse descriptions.
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Alice Murcheson looked over the greenhouse farm. Something had gotten into the wheat, and it was spreading fast.
Could some plant disease have been brought up here, and mutated on the way? So far it appeared to be only this one greenhouse, so it should be possible to contain the infection by opening the module to hard vacuum until everything within it died, down to the last bacterium.
But that assumed that no one had unwittingly spread it elsewhere in the period when it was first beginning to spread, but had yet to produce obvious symptoms. Although everyone in Agriculture knew the procedures to prevent cross-contamination, Alice knew all too well that people took shortcuts.
A lot of her classmates had nightmares after watching scary movies. Her worst nightmare had come when she was twelve years old and had found a book in the library about a plant disease wiping out the entire glass clade. Not just the grass in your yard, but also the all various cereal crops, and even corn and bamboo. A thriving world turned to a hellscape of people fighting to the death over cans of food as the plants that sustained civilization withered and died in the fields.
Which means we have to find out what’s going on, and fast.
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John Christopher’s “The Death of Grass” (US title No Blade of Grass).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Death_of_Grass
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That’s the one.
Our retail business has a copy in stock, and IIRC it even has the dust jacket.
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I can find any number of folks willing to cut the grass; but no one wants to trim the shrubberies.
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Make it a nice shrubbery. And another one a little bit lower for a difference.
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After nearly ten hours of hiking, being able to lie on the grass was a wonder. I had the pack off, my boots were off, my socks were sitting on my boot tops to dry out, and I was just reveling in the fact that I didn’t have my ruck and boots on.
Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear words that I barely made out in my semi-delirious state and a moment later I was jolted awake and sitting by adrenaline. Having my magic automatically vaporize a golf ball in flight will do that to you.
“Of all the rotten luck, and a two-stroke penalty,” I muttered. “I had to arrive at a golf course.”
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The greatest minds in botany had ceaselessly pondered the question and were still unable to come to a consensus:
”Is corn grass?”
(RiffTrax turned 18 this weekend, and this is their greatest running joke)
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The grass and flowers shifted about her feet in a way no breeze could account for, and with a radiant smile, Rae grasped a bouquet of wildflowers in rosy-red and yellow, and held it out to him.
A bee buzzed up to the sweet scent as he took the flowers.
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Love this: Sight, sound, and smell all present. Very compelling!
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“You can not militarily invade the United States of America, there is a rifle behind every blade of grass.”
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“You only got half the lawn mowed! County’s gonna be on our butts again about it, and if anything it looks worse than yesterday!”
I didn’t look my wife in the eye. I just held out the busted drive belt from the John Deere and took another swig of my ale before answering.
“These damn things are fifty bucks each. And this is the new one I put on this morning.” I hated the view from the window as much as she did, but it wasn’t going to talk back at least. It was just a single patch of the densest monocotyledonous ground cover in North Carolina, protruding unmovingly from the front turf of our lot like one unbending middle finger.
“So the grass won?”
“Grass 2, Deere 0. Best of seven or I sell the bloody tractor.” There was nothing else to it, so I finished my ale and pitched the bottle in the trash.
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The cow met Clem’s gaze with a bloodshot stare. She looked down momentarily, chewing her cud, then back up. “Like OOOOM, dude!” she said, with a bovine giggle.
“The hayull?” said Clem. “What’s wrong here? I told Delbert we needed grass-fed cattle.” Then Clem realized the truth. “DELBERT!” he screamed.
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Oom! Er, moo!
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“I was sitting with Lily on the lawn,” said Nigel Slim-Howland. “I was enjoying the evening and the company, when suddenly Lily expounded on the grass we were sitting on, its history, everything.”
“Why?” asked Gwendolyn.
“I suppose she was designed to be educational. I became an authority on fescue!”
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Nigel remembered that his new-found expertise actually paid off. At Saint Purgatory’s, the head groundskeeper was so impressed with his knowledge that he put Nigel in charge of maintaining the rugby and football pitches, which meant that he didn’t have to play either sport!
For that, Nigel was forever grateful.
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“Five hundred sixteen feet, 120 feet forward, 17 feet down.”
The AIS’ synthesized voice always reminded Alicia of those still-thrilling human voices, all the way back in 1969. One small step for a man…
Which, really, was why she’d set the defaults that way. But of course, this was only another incremental re-enactment of a rather bigger leap, for a lot more than two people. To a world over three times bigger than Earth’s Moon.
“Hey, how about that low hilltop about half a mile ahead?” Dave Ramsay’s voice was still a bit metallic, over the intercom from the back seat; but nothing much truly like an Automatic Idiot Savant, of course.
“Already got the cursor locked on it.” Nice thing about surveying a world from orbit, you could use photo and laser reconaissance to get very detailed visual-topographic maps. And you didn’t even need a miles-long ship to do it, either; though of course they had just that, in the Buzz Aldrin.
“Four hundred feet, 80 feet forward, 15 feet down.” What the robotalker did not say was, about half a minute to landing. But Alicia’s display did tell her that, along with her own rough calculations. Just as the stick between her legs moved obedient to the AIS’ guidance, all ready for her to take over on manual instantly if that were ever needed.
But, for a moment, she broke free much (not nearly all) of her attention. To contemplate the sea of green below her, around her, and as far as the eye could reach at this almost ridiculously low altitude.
A subtly but vitally different shade of green than previous years, earlier decades. One more “small step” up the long ladder, here…
“Three hundred feet, 50 feet per second forward, 12 feet per second down.” She hadn’t long-formed the status; the machine just did that, sometimes, for emphasis or for its own obscure reasons. AI-diosyncrasy, they said.
“Doppler warning, Alicia.” Dave’s voice was calm, but urgent.
And then the plains devil hit; not too violent, but enough to twist them from their earlier course. And Alicia had already hit the Big Red Button that snapped semi-manual control over to her, as she yawed the exocraft over forty or so degrees to starboard, and pulled up some as well…
Once upon a time, forty years ago when she’d been seven years younger, it would’ve been a dust devil, in air barely oxygen-rich enough to breathe. But no more; cyanobacteria and lichens and assorted other things had held onto bare rock and crumbled regolith well and long enough to slowly work it down and into true soil. Until now, just this spring and summer…
“Hundred and fifty feet, 40 feet forward, two feet down, stable in level flight and approaching target.” Alicia’s voice sounded calm, almost even a bit bored. As the two Earthmen had, that July day just before the turn of the millennium. But there would be no surprise boulder fields, no badly overloaded computers, no rigidly rationed fuel for these two, this day.
“Quasigravity drive, 80 feet, null speed, five feet down. Gear down, and, locked, three green lights.” It was pretty unnecessary, strictly, to call it all out; but every orbit-to-ground flight, she felt, merited that. AIS or human, the pilot with the conn ought to observe the courtesies.
Even, or most especially, 29 light-years from what used to be home.
“10 feet, hover, final clidar terminal scan. Terrain go, 2 feet down.”
And Dave couldn’t suppress a little chuckle of appreciation; finally, to even his unaided eyes, the sea of green on the other side of the pressure canopy was no longer featureless. The proof was almost under his boots.
And there was only a little jostle and bump as the pneumatic-tire landing gear compressed its hydraulic cylinders and came to rest. “Aldrin control, this is Black Swan, transat Flight 1179, we are landed, no-ack.” Barely a difference as the quiet buzz-hum of the gravity lift-and-drive idled and went to cold standby. A subtle hiss as the cabin pressure, already tuned to expected surface pressure here, dropped just a touch.
“Ready to egress.” Ramsay’s voice was only a little eager, speaking the familiar words of a tradition that had begun on faraway Mars.
“Popping canopy… now.” And the fighter-style canopy unlocked and swung up and away from them. “Dropping crew ladders.” A few seconds saw that also done.
And Alicia Silverman undid the straps and stepped up in the three-quarter (Earth) gravity of Fionn’s Folly, put her foot on the ladder, and said in the clear open air — “So, you wanna be first, Dave?”
“Landing Day, Alicia, commander’s privilege.” And there was a smile in his voice as he said it.
And she paused, having gotten to the very last step; not only to think of that other July 20th, so many years before 2317. But to look at the green miracle under her boot, where she was about to step.
Blades of grass, ten or twelve inches long, looking healthy as could be. And not just here, but for miles around. Already setting down roots, busy knitting the soil into turf. Well, you had to walk on it sometime…
“One small step for me, one giant leap to bring us here.” Us. Not just a few people, or some collection of machines, but a full-minimal arkology.
Enough people, enough machines, enough skills and data and know-how to do it all over again. A self-replicating von Neumann machine, yes; but made of culture and lore and braided skeins of family as well as steel and air and datacores and stardrive ceramics and alloys.
“Making life multistellar,” as they almost-used to say. And did, now.
“Alicia, this is as common as dirt,” he said, touching the grass, slowly and almost reverently. “And yet, it’s a bloody miracle.”
“‘Common as the dirt that feeds us all’, as they used to say on Earth.”
Dave Ramsay smiled. “You know, I bet Agroponics would love to get a dozen or so of their cows down here, long enough to graze most of a day. Bet you could requisition one of the medium-heavy transports and do that. Use the quasigravity to land them all with scarcely a quiver, same way back up.”
Alicia smiled back, widely, impishly, and conspiratorially. “Dave, I could fit a hundred cows in a medium-heavy’s main cargo bay. Bring some Belted Galloways, make a great photo spread for the next issue of the Tranquillity Gazette.”
And for a moment there was nothing but the quiet sigh of the wind, resting up now from its earlier toddleresque bluster.
She smiled, wider, again. “Need me for the first run of the samples?”
“No, not really, why?”
She tossed her helmet carefully but merrily to the green ground. “I think I’ll just go for a walk. Here in this beautiful, beautiful new field.”
And she did, under the sweetly-blessed dome of a flawless wide blue sky.
(Hat tip to Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins, of the historic Apollo 11, 55 years ago.)
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Lovely.
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The Captain sat in the grass next to one of the many large boulders that peppered the landscape. Before him lay the carcass of the itzak, and Friday and Spot were feeding on the remains, leftovers from the day before. Refrigeration was a built in thing here. It was high summer and slightly above freezing with the red star high in the sky.
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The sleigh jerked to an abrupt halt. He scanned the frozen icepack: nothing but snow and horizon. He tested new teams here because there were no obstructions and no prying eyes. Dismounting, checking the tack for problems, he saw it. Something green in the snow. “Grass? Here?!?” Santa said aloud.
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