I looked around and said to no one in particular, “Not like the slaving bastard is going to live long enough to bitch about me, anyway.”
It looked like I would have plenty to do on my vacation.
Q&A with Michael Anderle
What is your favorite word?
Believe – It is opportunistic, hopeful, energizing.
What is your least favorite word?
Loser – it is a label, it judges a person’s actions and abilities all in one.
What turns you on?
Creativity – My personality thrives on creating ideas. They don’t have to be workable, we will get to those later.
What turns you off?
Details – The molasses of life.
What sound or noise do you love?
The sound of raindrops on a tin roof while the cool winds of winter encourage me to stay in bed.
What sound or noise do you hate?
Pain – Whether from voice or the crash of cars... nothing good is happening.
What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck – Noun, verb, adjective... such a Renaissance type of word.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Special Effects creator.
What profession would you not like to do?
Accountant – Details!
If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?
Hey, I was that guy on the side of the street you helped out. Well done, well done indeed.
Have you written your whole life?
No, I did a little in high school. However, I was poorly scored during a literary class and it rather killed my desire to let anyone see anything again. So, I kept that desire under the rug for another thirty years.
Why did you do a series that merges Sci-Fi and Paranormal?
I’m a lifelong reader, and for the last ten years, I’ve really enjoyed the vampire/military sci-fi/space opera genres. I figured if I was going to write something, I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to market the stories!
How many books have you read over your lifetime?
Thousands? Well, hard to say. I’ll reread my favorites three to five times until I just can’t anymore. However, some of my favorite weekends are when I find a new series with three to five books and have nothing stopping me from reading all weekend.
What is your favorite comic series?
Foxtrot, hands down. It was Bloom County, but the sheer consistency of Foxtrot making me laugh can’t be beat.
What is your Golf Score?
How low can we go? The only game of golf that I like to play is ‘best ball’... That way, the pressure is off.
Where do you write?
I have different restaurants and locations. Obviously, home, home office, bed, couch, the club, Austin’s Taco House, The Salad Bowl (with Mexican food, no salad for me) and the occasional Starbucks.
Who is your favorite author?
Damn, this is a good one. I’m going to have to say fellow Indie Author John Conroe. His characters make me want to go back time and time again.
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Elvis Has Left the Building
by Caroline A. Gill
“COMMANDER. THE ELVII zygotes on level H are restless. Reporting a steep drop in the cryotemp. Growth is exponential. Action required immediately.” Rora’s twelfth alert pushed Commander Jonat B. Rutherford over the edge.
“Twisted balls of a sauced-out sea monkey!”
Spit flew onto the console. “Gawned dammit, Freckles! How many times do I have to issue an order? Freeze them deep. Do it now! We’re still twenty Earth years out. Spoilage. Spoilage and waste, that’s all that I hear. Make it right and do it quick.”
The commander’s frustration bloomed in an ugly red splotch across his grizzled face. He scratched absentmindedly at the poor clump of hair that dangled from his chin. He called it a beard. Rora couldn’t categorize it as anything other than a scrawny squirrel hanging onto his face for dear life. “Damn nuisances,” Commander Rutherford fumed. “I swear to the deepest gullet of a Smathonian banded whale! This whole consarned voyage has been nothin’ but trouble.”
Behind him, Adjunct Human Interface Rora A8302 nodded, as it had been programmed to do. The movement implied that it listened. That it cared. Rora did not care. Still, it had listened to the five years of ranting that the old human had so far vented, cataloguing each word. With less than .0001% of its computing power, it reviewed and reported conditions aboard the spaceship. Its jointed fingers moved with an efficient factory speed of two thousand clicks per minute.
Grunting, the old man sat in the central chair that dominated the control center. From there, the commander continued to growl. Rora noted any new curse words or phrases while inputting the directions necessary to apply cryofreeze to rooms 7 through 41.
Across the narrow cockpit, Jonat muttered, “There’s always something bubbling up on a junker this old. Can’t wait to finish. Time to get a ship that’s worth a damn.”
He spat toward the incendiary. He missed. Slowly, the glob of his disgust ran down the dented metal siding.
Rora computed again: Is twenty-five years of servitude worth the cost of the journey? Will Multi-Global Corporation keep its word? Insufficient data.
Recording everything as the universe sped along, each long shipboard year marked by their passing, Rora left no detail out of the compiled reports. Time was a human concept. Machines knew only actions and results. And the long-winded companionship of one doddering, foul-mouthed sailor.
“Report: Cryoengines four, five, six, and eight are online, sir.” It listed off the situation specifics, sparing no detail. “They report full capacity of humafreeon. No errors. Cryoengine seven does not respond to the request, sir.”
Rolling his eyes, the commander snorted in disbelief. Turning to the five screens that displayed the schematics of Space Federation Epsilon Pi-15’s layout, he peered at the map, scanning for the next emergency, the next bolt to fall off of the junker.
Entropy ruled his tin-can world.
The trouble was as obvious as a hooker after credits. The graphed area of cryoengines all blinked green except that one: Seven. Of course. Reaching up with his wrinkled hand, Jonat poked at the blinking red light with an index finger, full of irritation.
Sighing away his exhaustion, he scrambled into his repair spacesuit one tired bone after another. “This shift had best be over soon, Freckles. I need rest.” His words were muffled after that. He set the helmet over his head and gave it a quarter turn. It locked into place with a click.
And then his tirade continued over the communication channel. “—no cause for this kind of failure. It’s like they want to ruin me. Crap for cargo, dirt for pay.” Pushing on the three buttons next to the capsule door, Jonat’s tirade of wrongs continued long after he had clomped down the plasteel walkway and vanished into the bowels of Epsilon.