September 19, 2023

Yeah, it’s still three months away, but smart shoppers often shop early.

If you have friends or relatives on your gift list who enjoy reading, why not gift them a book for Christmas? Or even a book series? Books are often an inexpensive option that will be deeply appreciated by those who love to read, especially if the book is well written, exciting, and has great reviews. In other words…a page-turner.

I have 22 books like that in three series, most of them priced under $20 for paperbacks (they are also available as e-books). Over the next three months, I will feature some of these novels for your consideration. Don’t be afraid to shop early, and remember, if you already have something more expensive in mind for your loved ones, books make great stocking-stuffers.

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Today’s featured title: Guerrilla Girl

In this sequel to Starport, we meet Terra Lafirma, 16, a native girl from the Casamanilla region of Tropicon, a third-world planet with a troubled history. Terra has been taught from childhood that Askelon, the most powerful planet in the Trimary System, has exploited her world and stolen its resources. She wants nothing more than to join the local regiment and help throw the evil Askelonis off her planet.

The problem is, the local regiment doesn’t hire teenage girls…at least not for combat. Her application is rejected and she’s told to return home, only she can’t, because her family no longer wants her.

Here’s an excerpt:

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Two men stood outside the tent, one of them some kind of officer. As she approached, Terra couldn’t see any rank on his shirt, but he was obviously a leader—his shirt was a different color, light brown instead of green, and he was wearing sunblinders that hid his eyes. Most telling of all, his skin was white.

“Excuse me…”

Both men turned to face her. The white man didn’t speak, but the other one did. He wore no insignia and was very old…maybe forty-five.

“What do you want, muchica?” he demanded in a harsh voice. “This is a military camp for soldiers only. Did you not see the sign?”

“I’m looking for Colonel Parker,” she said evenly. “I came a long way to see him.”

“He isn’t here. Turn around and go back.”

Terra’s eyes hardened. The man was lying to her. Why did he have to be such a pendejano?

“I’m not leaving until I talk to Parker,” she said quietly.

“What you want to see him for, huh?”

“That’s my business.”

“Do you know the colonel?”

“I met him once. He invited me to come here.” That wasn’t strictly true, but close enough; it gave the pendejano pause.

“Colonel Parker will be gone for many days. Come back then.”

“How many days?”

“That is classified.”

“Then I will wait for him.” She dropped the canvas bag on the ground. “Where can I sleep?”

The old man seemed to swell with anger at her impudence, but the white man was smiling.

“Where’d you get that uniform?” he asked. His Spanzi was flawless but he spoke with a twang of accent.

She looked at him more closely. His eyes were hidden, but the smile was friendly enough. He had nice teeth, strong and white. He was an inch taller than the pendejano and much younger, maybe twenty-five. He wasn’t a big man, but he was fit—the brown shirt fit snugly and showed off his muscles.

“It isn’t a uniform. It’s military surplus.”

“We don’t give away used clothing!” the pendejano blustered.

“My uncle gave it to me. It’s one of his old uniforms.”

“From which regiment?” the white man asked.

Terra blinked, suddenly uncertain. Had Tío Ricardo broken the rules by giving her the outfit? Would he get in trouble if she told this man? Well, he hadn’t told her to keep it to herself, and he must have known she would wear it when she came to Casamanilla, so…

“This one.”

“What about the bayonet?”

“It’s mine.”

The pendejano glanced at the white man suspiciously, but the white man didn’t move. Nor did he speak for several seconds.

“It’s against the law for a civilian to carry a weapon on a military base,” he said quietly. “I would advise you to take it off.”

“I came here to join up. So I won’t be a civilian no more.”

The pendejano laughed in disbelief.

“Join up!” he hooted. “You can’t join up! We don’t take muchicas!”

Terra glared at him, the first hint of doubt forming in her mind. She felt her heart beat faster.

“Parker said I could join,” she said defiantly. “I will ask him when he returns.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“He came to my village when I was tw…a couple of years ago. He was looking for soldiers and told us all about the evil Askelonis. When I asked if I could join up too, he said sure.”

The pendejano laughed uproariously.

“He thought you wanted to be a putaña! And you’re a cute one, so he said sure. But he ain’t gonna let you carry a gun! You can’t train with the men!”

Terra’s budding fear turned to anger.

“I will not accept that from you! I will ask him myself.”

“Why do you want to be a soldier?” the white man asked. He was no longer smiling.

“Colonel Parker said it was our duty. Every generation of my family has supplied soldiers. My abuelo lost a leg fighting for Campetana, and my padre was killed. I have no brothers, so I will fight for my generation.”

“War is a nasty business. It’s no place for a girl.”

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In the meantime, back on Askelon, Tyler Unruh has joined 14th Star Infantry, the “elitest regiment in the whole damned army”. As a civilian, he unwillingly saw action on Environ during the recent fuel crisis and the experience moved him to enlist. His squad mates have no idea that he was on Environ and see him simply as the “new guy”.

Another excerpt:

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Tyler sat relaxing with a beer. He was unbelievably tired, but a hot shower, a hot meal, and a cold beer had energized him a little. It was two hours to lights-out and it felt good to just sit and relax with friends. He’d only been on the post for a week, so had no close friends yet, but most of the guys in the squad were at least friendly. Cpl. Borba had gone out of his way to make Tyler feel welcome and so had Weston Rogers, a private. Aside from Sam Duval, the others had been pleasant enough, though noncommittal.

The chatter ranged from the day’s field problem to the weather to the music and finally devolved into friendly insults and lots of laughter. Borba picked up two baskets of smoking-hot fritters and set them on the table he was sharing with Tyler and Rogers. Sam Duval wandered over and joined them, carrying a beer in each hand. He set them down and popped one, downing half of it in a single chug. He told a joke that had the others screaming with laughter, but Tyler only smiled. Duval’s presence irritated him, but as the “new guy” he was hardly in a position to make an issue of it.

Duval peered at him with glittering eyes.

“Wassamatter, Unroo? Didn’t you think that was funny?”

 Tyler nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty funny the first time I heard it.”

“You heard it before? When?”

 “I dunno, maybe when I was ten.”

“Bullshit! That joke only came out las’ year! I never heard it before las’ year.”

Tyler smiled quietly.

“Then I must’ve heard it last year.”

Duval eyed him warily and tipped his beer bottle again.

“Then why’d you say you heard it when you were ten?”

“Maybe I was wrong.”

“No shit, you were wrong! Looks like you get a lotta things wrong, don’tcha?”

Tyler shrugged. Borba shoved Duval’s second beer in front of him.

“Settle down, Sam. Have another beer.”

Duval unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle, his eyes never leaving Tyler.

“Ya know what? I’m gettin’ a little sick o’ your attitude, Unroo!”

Tyler had been glancing around the club, noting the steady stream of arrivals. Now he returned his gaze to Duval.

“Yeah? What attitude is that?”

Trouble was coming, he could feel it. He had known the first time he met Duval that they were going to clash—Duval was the insecure type who had to assert his dominance in the pecking order, and anyone new to his circle had to be challenged.

“You’re a fucking smart-ass, that’s what! You walk in here all high and mighty!”

Tyler frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yeah.” Borba was also frowning. “What’s Unruh done to piss you off?”

Duval swung bleary eyes on Borba.

“Pete, are you fucking blind? He’s a punk! A fucking punk!”

Borba cast Tyler an alarmed glance and turned back to Duval.

“Sam, he’s only been here a week and he’s done his job. What more do you want from the guy?”

“I jus’ don’t like his smug, superior attitude!”

“Is that why you’ve been on his ass since Day One?”

“What! I ain’t been on his ass! He’s been on my ass! Walked in here like he owns the goddamn place! Made it to 14th Star on his first try!”

Realization dawned in Borba’s eyes. He threw Tyler a bemused look.

“Is that what’s bothering you? That he made it on his first try and it took you three?”

“Fucking A! Nobody else did that, so what’s the big fucking deal if he did! He don’t have to throw it in everybody’s face alla time!”

Rogers spoke up for the first time.

“I made it on my first try, Sam, and so did Pete. The way I remember it, you asked Unruh the first day he got here how many times he applied for 14th Star and he told you. He didn’t volunteer anything.”

“Bullshit! I’m gonna kick his fuckin’ ass!”

Tyler tensed. Duval was glaring at him, but Tyler didn’t know him well enough to know if he was bluffing. If it came to a fight, Duval had thirty pounds on him; Tyler was fit and well trained, so he could hold his own, but it would probably be a serious brawl.

“You’re not kicking anybody’s ass,” Borba said, his voice suddenly low and threatening. “Unruh’s a member of our squad and you’ll give him the respect he’s due. If there’s any ass kicking, we’ll do it privately, with Sergeant Toews supervising. Is that clear?”

Duval’s eyes drifted away. He sat silent for thirty seconds, tipping his beer again. He looked back at Tyler and sneered.

“First time we get into combat this pussy will prob’ly run away. Chickenshit bastard!”

Tyler swigged his beer and broke eye contact, looking around the club. But Duval wasn’t finished.

“You better watch your ass, Unroo. Shit gets mighty confused in combat, bullets flying every which way. You never know—you might get smoked by your own side.”

Tyler set the beer down with a thump and leaned across the table, eyes blazing.

“Is that a threat, Sam? Are you threatening to kill me if we’re deployed?”

Duval stared at him a moment, then grinned.

“Naw, that ain’t a threat. That’s just friendly advice. Wouldn’t wanna see you get hurt, Unroo. But shit happens, don’t it? You just better watch your ass.”

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Carlene Vargas, wanted for murder on Askelon, is hiding out on Tropicon and seems to be safe until the day she spots a suspicious man following her. Her tail is none other than retired Col. Oliver West, with whom she has a brief history. West offers her a deal–immunity on the murder charge if she will work for him as a spy. Turns out…she’s pretty good at it.

Excerpt:

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Rachelle’s was nearly empty when Carlene strolled through the door and stopped to look around. Four different sales “girls” eyed her suspiciously from four different vantage points, certain they had never seen her before, wondering if she was new in town or just another rich girl wannabe. Carlene ignored them, slid her shades to the top of her head, and advanced into the store like an invading general looking for the soon-to-be-deposed king. She was wearing a tight, bare-shoulder body-hugger, brilliant red with gauzy sleeves interwoven with tropical flowers, and six-inch heels (Oliver West had purchased the dress right here in the same store a few days earlier).

Carlene’s hair was dyed completely black, but her tan was the real thing—she’d spent three nearly-naked days baking under Askos 2 to get it. Her left hand sported an obscenely expensive wedding ring with three multi-carat diamonds in a triangular setting—a Trimary Ring; the rest of her fingers flashed an assortment of other rings, also expensive, to complete her look. The jewelry belonged to the Askelon Intelligence Agency, and had to be returned if she valued her life.

“Can I…help you?”

Carlene was inspecting a rack of furs, her head tilted critically, almost angrily. She glanced at the sales “girl” to see if it really was a woman—the voice was suspiciously deep and man-like. Carlene pinned the plastic creature with a direct stare for a moment, then nodded to the rack of fur pieces.

“Is that supposed to be ring-tailed battock? It looks fake to me.”

The over-painted woman sniffed and lifted her chin in haughty disdain.

“I assure you, that is not fake. It was trapped by hand, skinned by hand, and cured by hand. It was taken right here in the wilds of Campetana. Perhaps you are accustomed to furs raised on the farms of Askelon.” (She pronounced it “fuhzz” and “fahms”.)

Carlene lifted one of the furs and turned it over in her hand, drawing a look of alarm from the clerk. Gazing at it critically, she shook her head.

“No, I would never buy anything raised on a farm. Farms are so…inorganic.”

She set the fur down and tossed her head, brushing the clerk aside as she moved toward another rack.

“In any case, there’s little enough opportunity to wear fur in this horrid climate.”

Scandalized, the sales woman trailed along in her wake, now certain that Carlene was either going to steal something or, just perhaps, blow up the store.

“Did the mistrilini have anything…pahticulah in mind?”

Standing before a display of sexually-explicit underthings, Carlene whirled on her, scanned her head to toe, and shook her head.

“No, but when I find something I’ll let you know. In the meantime, you don’t need to follow me around like a sex-starved lesbian sniffing my ass.” She tilted her head slightly. “Unless you don’t particularly enjoy your job.”

“Well!”

The woman stared at her in shock, then turned on the professional scowl that usually wilted uppity customers; when Carlene continued to glare at her, she spun on her heel and stalked away.

Carlene watched her go, giving the other clerks a moment to observe her resolve, then moved on to another display. She inspected several items of merchandise, turning them this way and that, and rejected them all with a faint snort, her disdain evident. By the time she reached the cosmetics counter every clerk in the store was watching her.

And so was the only other customer at the counter, a thin woman in her fifties with black hair, pinched features, paper-thin lips, and absolutely no figure. The woman could easily have passed unnoticed in a homeless shelter, yet she obviously had money or she wouldn’t have been in Rachelle’s. The kindest thing one could have said about her was that she was ugly; the meanest would have made reference to pointed hats and broomsticks. And yet there was something about her…

Carlene took up position two feet to the woman’s left, picked up a bottle of exotic scent, and sprayed a few molecules on her wrist. She sniffed it suspiciously, then began briskly scrubbing it off with the palm of her hand. She shook her head sadly.

“Why do we even put up with them?”

“Excuse me?”

Carlene turned her direct stare on the ugly customer; the woman was regarding her with wide, disapproving eyes.

“Men!” Carlene smiled. “They’re all a bunch of bastards, aren’t they? Take my husband for example—he brings me to this—this planet…sets me down in this godforsaken hole of a city, gives me a credit line, and tells me to—” She said the rest in sing-song. “—‘have a good time, honeeee!’ While he rockets off to some kind of ‘business retreat’ over on the coast.”

Scowling, she picked up another bottle of scent and tested it as well.

“If I ever find out that he’s fucking some goddamn beach girl while I’m sucking air in this shithole of a town, I’ll…well, I’ll cut off his balls!”

She set the perfume bottle down and heaved a deep breath, planting a hand flat on her chest. She panted down her adrenaline for a second, then turned to the black-haired woman again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean to dump all that on you. I’m just venting.” She stuck out her hand. “My husband really is an asshole, but he’s a rich asshole, so what’s a girl going to do?”

The other woman stared at her for ten seconds, glaring first at her face and finally her outstretched hand. Finally, as if coming to a long-debated decision, she allowed a thin smile to crack her features. She locked gazes with Carlene and suddenly laughed out loud. She took the hand and gave it a firm shake.

“My dear, you are the most refreshing breath of air I’ve had in ages. My husband is an asshole, too. Thank you for brightening up my day.”

Carlene laughed. “You are absolutely welcome. My name is Carla Verda.”

“You can call me Gloria. Gloria Boyd.”

“I’m thrilled to meet you, Gloria. Have you had lunch yet? I’m starving.”

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…and there’s a lot more where that came from. Guerrilla Girl is packed with adventure, excitement, suspense, bone-chilling combat, and even a little romance. And politics. Don’t forget the politics.

Order your paperbacks now, direct from Amazon:

And soon I’ll send another email with more Christmas offers.

Until then.

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