Prodigal

CONTENTS

In Memory of
Harold and Edna Miller

The book you hold in your hands is my second published novel, but for me it represents a lot of firsts. It’s the first time I’ve done a book that wasn’t on speculation, with a major publisher actually paying me to write. It’s also the first time I’ve ever written a sequel—a prospect that both intrigued and terrified me at the same time. While the end of
Hammerjack
left open lots of possibilities, I hadn’t really given much thought to how I’d continue the story during the two long years it took to sell the book. Now suddenly I had a contract stipulating that I needed to do exactly that—and I had just a little over a year in which to deliver.

When faced with that kind of looming deadline, I usually resort to two things: fried food and brainstorming. A long lunch at an Applebee’s up in Clearwater provided the former, while John Kerwin—one of my best and oldest friends—kindly supplied the latter. There, we tossed around ideas until one of them finally stuck. I gave it some time to percolate over the next couple of weeks, and to my delight (and utter relief) the idea grew into an actual
story,
complete with a nice hook to drive the narrative. From there it was a mad dash to make my publication date, all while finishing the final edits on
Hammerjack
and taking care of a new baby in the house. Welcome to show business, friends and neighbors.

Crazy as the last year has been, I had a great time getting to know these characters again. As they often do, Lea Prism and Avalon surprised me—both with the force of their personalities and the directions they wanted to go. Making that journey, however, wouldn’t have been possible without the dedication of a special few—people who gave of themselves selflessly but never asked anything in return.

On the home front, it begins and ends with my wife Ildi. She never doubted my crazy dreams about being a writer—and more than that, she sacrificed all those long hours I spent in front of the computer finishing this novel. As for my children, Lexie and Christian, you continue to amaze me every day. Having you in my life has been my greatest reward.

To Mom and Dad, what can I say? Thanks for your encouragement and confidence—and for the use of your den for all those weekends I was trying to make deadline. Whenever I wonder how to be a good parent, I need look no further than your example.

Kimberley Cameron, my agent and friend—I needed your reassurance and wisdom even more the second time around, and am forever grateful to have you in my corner. A guy couldn’t have a better guide through the twists and turns of the book business, or a stronger advocate for the written word.

Juliet Ulman, perhaps the most patient editor in the world—thanks for kicking my butt when I needed it and for working wonders with my first draft. You always knew how to find the novel buried within the manuscript, even with that giant, ill-tempered mutated sea bass swimming around (don’t ask). I have only one question—is anything still left in that bottle of scotch?

Shouts also go out to Dorris Halsey, for all her behind-the-scenes work down in LA; Josh Pasternak, for his editorial insights; Jack Harris of 970 WFLA, for my early-morning radio gig; Margo Hammond of the
St. Petersburg Times,
for a great time at the Festival of Reading; Neal Asher and Richard Morgan, for sharing the wisdom of their experiences; John and Stephanie, for throwing the best publishing party a writer could ask for; Jeff, Manny, Curtis, Bryan, and all the poker night irregulars, for keeping my game honest; Valerie Bukowski, for authorizing all the time off; and to those who dropped me a line to tell me how much they enjoyed
Hammerjack,
I truly appreciate you welcoming this new author onto your bookshelves.

Finally, a special thanks goes out to Mike Straka—a nice guy in a tough business who helped me more than he could realize.

The ship’s computer core was not functionally intelligent—though after spending enough time there, Nathan Straka had come to believe that
Almacantar
whispered to him between the thrust tremors that penetrated her decks. It wasn’t a constant drone, but something that came in flashes and bursts, on frequencies that hung in the air like stray cryocarbons, flooding the empty spaces with data that anyone could sense. That is, if anyone listened.

Nathan had started out this journey no more inclined to pay attention than anyone else on board. Like his crewmates, he was here only because of his job—one the Collective Spacing Directorate paid him handsomely to do. But this was
deep
space, a concept that had meant little to him back when he was jumping around the solar system at near light speed.
Almacantar
’s towed cargo array had slowed this journey to a crawl, however—a full seven months of continuous flight. Since then, with the bulkheads closing in over his head and the throb of the ship’s engines in his ears, the blue disc of Earth had become little more than a construct in his mind—an image on a virtual display, which he punched up every now and then just to be certain it still existed.
Almacantar
had been talking to him the whole time, but it was only then he began to open himself up to her.

“Straka, you got the freqs on that background radiation yet?”

The words from his headset echoed through his imagination, absorbed by the data patterns coursing across the display in front of him. Nathan liked to stay close, his eyes perched on the edge of that flat horizon, so he could feel the electricity of the numerics on his skin. Out here, it was as close as he could get to being plugged in. Solar winds were unpredictable and could easily fry a mind floating out in the void on the tendrils of an interface.

“Still working that out,” Nathan replied. He had fed the approach parameters into
Almacantar
’s computer over thirty minutes ago, but the embedded crawler was still processing the information. Those were the whispers Nathan had been listening for, those subtle hints that the core and the crawler bridged properly.
Almacantar
was an older ship, way short of the specs required for a lengthy salvage operation; but she was all the Directorate had left, and the Collective wasn’t about to spend the time and money it would take to do this thing up from scratch. That was how Nathan ended up on this trip. It had been
his
idea to mate the computer core with a modified crawler—an arrangement that gave
Almacantar
the muscle she needed to run her mission-critical tasks but also required constant coaxing. At best, there might have been half a dozen systems shrinks in the world who could handle the juice. Nathan was one of them. That distinction had earned him a promotion to lieutenant commander, and his position as information command officer (ICO)—second in rank only to the captain.