In an epic fantasy unlike any other, two women clash in a world full of rebellion, espionage, and military might on the far outreaches of a crumbling desert empire.

Touraine is a soldier. Stolen as a child and raised to kill and die for the empire, her only loyalty is to her fellow conscripts. But now, her company has been sent back to her homeland to stop a rebellion, and the ties of blood may be stronger than she thought.

Luca needs a turncoat. Someone desperate enough to tiptoe the bayonet’s edge between treason and orders. Someone who can sway the rebels toward peace, while Luca focuses on what really matters: getting her uncle off her throne.

Through assassinations and massacres, in bedrooms and war rooms, Touraine and Luca will haggle over the price of a nation. But some things aren’t for sale.

***

I learned a language.

The idea for The Unbroken came when I was studying French in university, specifically when I was studying Francophone African literature. The authors wrote about their experience with colonialism, including the experiences of writing in French instead of Arabic. At the time, I wanted to learn Arabic for academic/career reasons, like getting a degree in Franco-colonial studies, but Arabic is hard to pick up on your own with nothing but a few Google guides for drawing letters. A few years after my failed attempt at learning on my own, and abandoning the idea of a PhD, I found myself in my last year of an MFA in fiction with a few extra course credits to spend and a novel I wanted to research properly. I tried again.

Arabic is a beautiful language, a language of poets and artists and some of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. It’s both intuitive and simple and as complex as mathematics. There are multiple dialects and my rotating cast of teachers made sure that I had exposure to all of them–resulting in an odd accent that earns me a lot of teasing anytime I’m not speaking formal Arabic.

I learned that a language is so much more than a language.

The better I got at Arabic, the more people I could speak to. The more people I spoke to, the more stories they told me. More than a combination of syllables and rhythms, language is stories, and stories are histories. A language is food and customs and traditions and religions. The right language, even the right accent, is power and privilege. It unlocked moments of parallel understanding and sparked lifelong friendships. And just like learning more and more French exposed me to the underbelly of a chic European nation’s glittering reputation, learning more Arabic gave nuance to a stereotypical at worst, and homogeneous and incomplete at best, picture of the Arabophone world I was exposed to by American and European media.

I learned that learning a language is not enough.

I got to speak with Moroccans and Algerians (at least partially; there was a lot of fumbling on my part) on their own terms, in their preferred languages, about what it’s like living in a post-colonial country. Despite having pretty decent schooling, though, I was at a steep disadvantage in my understanding of the history of the Arabophone world. That meant doing more research. It meant interrogating my own assumptions–what’s the difference between Israel and Palestine? an ignorant American kid might ask–well, here’s a Palestinian journalist. What about the French? Well here’s The Wretched of the Earth. The more research you’ve done, the better you understand complex situations, and the better you understand complex situations, the better you can support the people working to better those situations.

If you do it right, learning a language is empathy. It’s a radical act in learning to listen and understand someone else, which is difficult at the best of times, and it’s an act that native English speakers are so rarely called upon to do.

If you do it right, writing is empathy.

It’s a radical act in learning to listen and understand someone else, which is difficult at the best of times, and it’s an act that those with more privilege are so rarely called upon to do.

I learned that the Sahara really is cold at night.

Really cold.

***

Cherae graduated from Indiana University’s creative writing MFA. She’s been a personal trainer, an English teacher, and an editor, and is some combination thereof as she travels the world. When she’s not writing or working, she’s learning languages, doing P90something, or reading about war and [post-]colonial history. Her short fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, FIYAH, PodCastle and Uncanny.

C.L. Clark: Website | Twitter | Instagram

The Unbroken: Indiebound | Bookshop | Powells | B&N | Amazon

Spoiler warning, I suppose: I got my first dose of The Vaccine.

It was Moderna at a Wegman’s with a candlestick wait no that’s Clue. (Forget the candlestick part. The rest remains accurate.) Securing the appointment was not easy, and was based almost exclusively on luck — I had not realized that Wegman’s seems to update their appointments at Tuesdays around 11AM, and that’s when I clicked. The first four appointments I clicked did not take me through, but the final one suddenly… scheduled. (I’ll be honest, it’s not unlike how I got a PS5. Pure clickity-clickety luck.) A week later, that appointment happened. It was a simple, fast execution. I went in. Told them I qualify (not a lie, in case anyone fears me a line-jumper, though I have complicated thoughts about line-jumpers, most of which adds up to, “Well, anyone who gets the vaccine needs the vaccine and they’re one fewer link in the infection chain”). I went over, leaned across a pharmacy desk, and a very nice nurse stuck me with a needle so painless that if I had not been watching her do it, I would’ve assumed it was an act of pure medical mimery. Then they scheduled my second dose and after a waiting period of fifteen minutes, off I went, back into the world, my body now in possession of the Death Star Plans, aware of the flaws in its design.

The external process was easy.

The internal process was a little more complicated.

By internal process, I mean — what I was thinking, what I was feeling.

Here’s the thing. I haven’t been inside a store since March of 2020. I’ve remained a relative hermit. Our kiddo’s virtual. I don’t even go to grocery stores, having the combo-pack privilege of money and location so I can order food curbside, or delivery, or from a CSA. This isn’t entirely anathema to my life anyway, as I am a writer who writes in a shed in his backyard, so I’m pretty used to being happy in relative isolation — just the same, I love to travel. I love to people watch. Hell, I love grocery stores. I love shopping for groceries. It calms me. Maybe that’s weird, but it’s me.

So, it’s… interesting, at least, that my next trip to a grocery store was a year later, getting a vaccine for the disease that stopped me from going to grocery stores in the first fucking place. I masked up. I pushed past the small panic attack (ohmygodpeople ohmygodvirus ohmygodsixfeetSIXFEET) and did the deed. And upon receiving the shot it was like —

It was like it all hit me at one time, a cresting wave, a hole beneath me, a light from above. All of it. A pyramid of feelings spun upside-down, its sharp peak pressing down upon that space between my shoulder blades. I was happy, obviously. It’s hard not to be happy, I guess. Just the theoretical promise of even a rough semblance of normalcy felt buoyant, the feeling of being in a cage but seeing someone walking toward it with the door key in hand. Hurry up, you think, get over here, I got shit to do, I’m ready to stretch my legs, I’m ready to run, I want to go shop for produce, is there an orgy, can I get an invite, I dunno that I wanna go, I’m just saying, I’d like the option is all, because now life is all about options again, woooo. 

I felt happy. Obviously. Definitely. Yes.

But I felt… other things.

And it’s the other things I want to talk about.

I was happy about that return to normalcy, but angry, too, for how many people never left normalcy in the first place. So many people who chose to ignore the fire that was burning down their neighbor’s house. People who kept on living life at their maximum, sacrificing nothing while others sacrificed everything. And that anger mounted, too, because those people were sold a lie, a bill-of-sale for a bridge in Brooklyn, handed this disinformation debt from a toxic political environment stirred by a propagandist, a brute, a fool. I was angry at the politicians who even now act like masking is an act of terror against the nation of their faces, their beautiful faces, their God-chosen God-shined God-blessed faces, how dare you cover up their holy mouths with a crass slip of fabric. So what if it protects others? Protecting others isn’t the mandate of this country, damnit. Oh, no no no, individual liberty trumps communal responsibility every time. Who cares if the boat is sinking, you can’t make me use a bucket to bail it out. That impacts the freedom of my hands not to wield a clumsy bucket. Jesus Christ, I might get splinters! How unfair is that?

How dare I be asked to change literally anything in the midst of a pandemic?

And that makes me worried, too, because what happens in the next crisis? We have strong leadership now, but turns out, there are a whooooole lot of people in this country — and, I’m quite sure, the world beyond it — who are happy to ignore reality because it will inconvenience them in some way. We live in this age of Choose Your Own Adventure truth, where if you don’t like the option you picked, you just go back and flip to another page. “I turn to page 37, where climate change isn’t real,” and you get lost in the storyline you prefer rather than the one the rest of us are living in. It feels like swimming upstream, because it’s easier to sell a lie than to deliver the truth.

But then I get hopeful, too. Because if you’d told me a year ago we would have a vaccine, a real goddamn vaccine with real goddamn efficacy, I’d have patted your head and said, well, that’s nice. But we have three to choose from, and may have more on the way. And and and, two of those vaccines are based on new technology pioneered by small companies that were ignored by investors because it wasn’t viewed as reliable, or properly capitalistic enough, or whatever their reasons. And it may lead us to new vaccines for other troublesome diseases. Which is amazing! Technology is amazing! Especially, especially when the important, life-giving, world-essential stuff isn’t subject purely to the whims of unregulated capitalism! Except it sometimes still is! And there enters sadness.

Sadness for those who haven’t gotten the shot yet. Who can’t get it. Who are marginalized and underserved in this country and in other countries, too poor to get the shot, too Black, too brown, too this, too that, you don’t live in the right area, you aren’t white, you aren’t in a more liberal state, you aren’t in America at all, and so on, and so forth. And it’s not just the people who can’t get the shot now. It’s the people who can never get it, because they didn’t survive. The right loves to regale you with how low the chances of death are, when the disease has killed well over a half-a-million people in this country already. We’re coming up on one Wyoming’s worth of people gone from the space-time continuum because we didn’t know how to protect them. One year. So many lost. We broke the world for 3,000 dead in 9/11. But some people shrug off a number that is 180 9/11s. One. Hundred. Eighty. Sometimes we were losing three thousand people in a single day of this disease. A horror show of pain and misery, lost lives, broken families, lost jobs, lost health from long COVID, and when I say lost, it’s not just lost, it was taken, stolen by people who politicized the disease, who governmentally codified a callous, uncaring response.

But, we’ve turned the corner, at least. You can say that much. A lot of doses have reached a lot of arms. We have better leadership now, better than I imagined we’d get. There’s a light at the end. We’re not in that light yet, and of course some people are running rampant (don’t even look up videos of spring break right now, or you’ll shit bees), but we’re… getting there. Rickety, clumsy, drunken. But we’re getting there. And so anger and sadness give way once more to happiness and hope, because for all the torment and woe, any chance out of *gestures broadly) ALL THIS is a good thing.

It’s a wild, whirling blender of emotions, is what I’m saying.

It’s a lot to process, but after you get that shot, you gotta sit there for fifteen minutes, doing very little but waiting to make sure you don’t have an allergic reaction or puke up frogs or whatever, and while sitting there, it was hard not to just sit with it all. Because truly, I try not to spend a lot of time thinking about it in the day-to-day, because it’s too damn much. But in that moment, it felt right to dwell. Even to dwell upon what went, and what felt, wrong.

I guess I note all this just because I expected to feel happy and relieved, which I did. But I didn’t really expect that door to open and let all those other unruly feelings in, too. I guess it’s my way of saying, if I’m feeling it, maybe you’re feeling it, too. These days I think there’s more and more value in reminding people that it’s okay to feel things, even when those feelings are complicated.

To epilogue this motherfucker, I’ll note that the after-effects of the first shot have been mild. On the way home, my shot arm got weirdly hot right in the crook of my arm, as if I were bending the joint around a hot curling iron. It lasted for maybe five minutes, and then was done. During dinner last night, my tinnitus kicked up real hard — I pretty much always have it in my left ear, never in my right. The left dialed up loud and the right started, too. That was maybe ten minutes. Other than that, this morning I feel like I shouldered open a door with all the arm pain, but it’s not too terrible.

I’m told the second-dose is likelier to be a doozy, and to prepare for a day or two of downtime. That’s okay. Sometimes when you update the ol’ meat computer, it takes a while to properly install the upgrades. The antivirus software will have some bug fixes. That’s okay. I’m giving off good 5G software now as the Tiny Robot Tom Hankses inside me are learning their way around. My teeth are microchips, which is cool. I can access my own thoughts via an app, which was unexpected, but hey, the future is wild, y’all. The future. Is. Wild.

Anyway, eat shit, coronavirus.

Hope y’all get some shots in your arms real soon.

Be well, stay safe, mask up in the meantime. Care about others. Yay science.

In 2016 an occult cabal activates a psychic trigger in a popular video game and a countdown to chaos begins.

While her husband is deployed in Afghanistan, Jessica Ritter finds herself navigating the pitfalls of parenting on her own. That includes moderating her ten-year-old son’s screen time—an obsession that hits a fever pitch when YouTube sensation Rainbow Dave releases an addictive new iPad game. Gavin knows he isn’t supposed to keep secrets from his parents, but when his achievements in the game unlock personal messages from Dave instructing him to embark on real world mini-quests, he can’t resist.

In the aftermath of an ambush that leaves her husband missing in action, Jessica grapples with fear and sorrow while clues to a threat closer to home evade her detection. Rainbow Dave, the charismatic host of Scream Time, is America’s cool big brother—a gamer who built a video empire on the strength of his personality. He is also the focus of a shadowy conspiracy hell-bent on sowing chaos with vast technological resources. Dave’s anonymous benefactors have granted him a glimpse of paradise between the pixels, and the real world hasn’t looked the same since. Now, wired with a head full of unholy revelations and a crate full of dangerous devices, he’s on a mission to help his fans “level up” at a live event. Scream Time is coming to town, and it may be too late to stop a deadly game.

* * *

SOMETIMES TIMING IS EVERYTHING

This book took me longer to write than any other since my first novel. The first draft came pretty quickly, but that was followed by several years of revisions before finding the right shape for the story in between working on other projects. I will generally tinker with a book for as long as I’m allowed to, but I knew this was a timely story, focused on a cultural and technological moment that would eventually pass. So while I spent years reworking the manuscript and pitching it to agents and editors, I had a panicky sense of urgency that it would eventually expire like a carton of milk before it was ever published.

His Own Devices is set in 2016, on the brink of what we now know will be a cataclysmic upheaval in America. Because I felt confident I had a story that spoke to the moment, I was willing to wait for the right allies to hopefully bring it to a mainstream audience. But that clock was ticking, and then Covid hit, and maybe it was me or my book but all of the sudden no one was answering those follow-up nudge emails. Eventually, after a lot of deliberation, I decided to self-publish and strike while the iron was hot. And to my surprise, all that time I’d spent working on the novel had only made its themes more prominent in the news. Russian psyops, YouTube horror memes like Momo, dark web open source domestic terrorism, and quasi-religious social media conspiracies were all more relevant than ever.

None of this gives me any joy as I finally arrive at promoting the book, but in the final drafts I realized I could enhance the resonance that was built into the story from the start by keeping it set in 2016. That year turned out to be the inflection point for much of the digital chaos we’re grappling with now. And that “foreknowledge” enabled me to calibrate the final version of the book to set the stage for every horrible thing we now know happens next.

TEST YOUR STORY BUT TRUST THE SPARK

Part of what took so long between the first draft and the last was my openness to criticism and feedback. After years of publishing with small presses, I felt like this could be the one to break out if I didn’t screw it up, so I gathered a lot of notes from beta readers, agents, mentors, and editors who read the early versions. At one point I even had the data scientists behind The Bestseller Code: Anatomy of the Blockbuster Novel run the manuscript through their “Bestseller-ometer,” which uses algorithms trained by thousands of blockbuster novels to run a diagnostic check on a text’s style, pacing, emotional beats, and character agency. I know how cynical that sounds, but the approach seemed consistent with a novel that’s mostly about the dark power of technology. (I’ll spare you the details of the forty-page report, but that version of the book scored 4 out of 5 stars, for whatever it’s worth.)

I do think the novel benefited from all of this feedback—or most of it, anyway. For one thing, I heard consistently that my main character came off as a bit of a high-strung helicopter parent, a criticism I haven’t heard repeated by the final readers of the final draft because I realized it was better to let the reader do a lot of her worrying for her. On the other hand, I also realized late in the game that I’d taken the advice of one agent too far and padded the opening with boring details intended to make the protagonist more “likable,” hindering the thriller pace in the process. That all ended up on the cutting room floor.

But there were some elements of the story that were never up for debate in my mind. Like the unnerving ambiguity that pervades the story and leaves us with some unanswered questions at the end. Fiction may satisfy because it often resolves things better than the Mueller Report, but I wanted to reflect the deep unease we live with in these times. That was the book I’d set out to write, the spark that got me excited about the story in the first place. To betray it for a neat and tidy ending wasn’t on the table. So yeah, you can chew on feedback until you don’t know if you’re making a book better or worse, but never sacrifice the story spark that got you invested in the first place. It’s your North Star.

THE APOCALYPSE HAS BEEN HAPPENING ON THE DARK WEB FOR A WHILE

My villain uses the dark web to research some dangerous terrorist plans. I also researched enough of that to know what was plausible while leaving out any details someone would need to cause real trouble. And hoo-boy! We’ve come a long way since the paperback copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook we used to stock when I worked at Tower Records in the 90s. I did my homework using the anonymous Tor browser so I wouldn’t end up on more government watch lists than I’m already on as a horror writer, but when you bump into a recipe that starts with the disclaimer “Do Not Make This Until TSHTF,” you realize that some of the preppers among us are not invested in the promise of a peaceful and prosperous society. It’ll put a chill down your spine.

STORY FIRST, IN ALL THINGS

Writers, especially indie writers, have to learn to wear many hats these days. It took me a few years and a lot of frustration to get the hang of writing back cover story blurbs. It’s a different kind of writing from the fiction it endeavors to sell, with a different set of rules and techniques. And that’s just one example. I’ve had to learn how to write newsletters, pitch emails, bookstore banter, and blog posts like this one. As I set out to self-publish a full-length novel for the first time, I discovered there were all kinds of techniques I could learn from successful indie authors—like using a “reader magnet” to cultivate an audience for a book before the release. That kind of marketing speak usually makes my eyes glaze over, but then I realized it wasn’t about sleazy marketing tactics. It was about storytelling. The only thing that makes people want to download a free novella as a newsletter subscription reward, and the only thing that makes them want to read that newsletter long enough to hear about your next book, is compelling storytelling.

It was liberating to realize that every email or promo piece I dreaded writing would also be dreadful for readers unless I viewed it as one more effort to do what I’m trying to do in the first place, which is tell a story. I may not always succeed, but it has to be the intention. Realizing that led me to write a prequel for His Own Devices called Random Access, which became a way to expand on the characters and hint at some intriguing answers to those questions I left dangling at the end of the novel. In trying to write a freebie that would both hook people who have never heard of me and also reward people who had already read the book, I ended up expanding my fictional world in some surprising ways.

FORGET IMITATION—LIFE AND ART ARE IN A WEIRD FEEDBACK LOOP

Any fiction writer who’s been at it for a while will tell you they start to notice things in the real world that are uncomfortably synchronous with whatever weird shit they happen to be making up at the time. Just ask Chuck: he wrote a book in which a pandemic called White Mask competes with a white supremacist insurrection to destroy America. And he published it the year before it actually happened, which I think earns him the Carl Jung Medal of the Cosmic Mindfuck.

I can’t compete with that. But remember I told you about how I watched the country creep closer to a state of chaos wrought by shady digital actors in the few years between the conception and publication of His Own Devices? Well, when it came time to pick a publication date, I went with March 4^th for the private joke inherent in the pun (March forth and conquer, little book!). I picked that date about a month ago when I set up the Amazon pre-order, and just a few days ago I saw on CNN that the latest Q-Anon theory is that “the storm” will finally result in Trump reclaiming power on March 4^th. Let me tell you, friends…I’ve had enough of relevance for a while.

* * *

Douglas Wynne is the author of the horror/thriller novels The Devil of Echo Lake, The Wind In My Heart, and Red Equinox. His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and his writing workshops have been featured at genre conventions and schools throughout New England. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife and son and a houseful of animals.

Douglas Wynne: Website | Twitter

His Own Devices: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

Hester Marley used to have a plan for her life. But when a catastrophic attack left her injured, indebted, and stranded far from home, she was forced to take a dead-end security job with a powerful mining company in the asteroid belt. Now she spends her days investigating petty crimes to help her employer maximize its profits. She’s surprised to hear from an old friend and fellow victim of the terrorist attack that ruined her life—and that surprise quickly turns to suspicion when he claims to have discovered something shocking about their shared history and the tragedy that neither of them can leave behind. 

Before Hester can learn more, her friend is violently murdered at a remote asteroid mine. Hester joins the investigation to find the truth, both about her friend’s death and the information he believed he had uncovered. But catching a killer is only the beginning of Hester’s worries, and she soon realizes that everything she learns about her friend, his fellow miners, and the outpost they call home brings her closer to revealing secrets that very powerful and very dangerous people would rather keep hidden in the depths of space.

***

Nobody knows where AI is going.

Writing a book that features artificial intelligence in a major role was not, perhaps, the wisest idea I ever had. I am not an AI expert. I am not even an AI amateur. As soon as I start writing, I had a huge amount of research to do. I started reading through a great pile of articles and books and learned a few key things. The first is that everybody who does AI research disagrees with everybody else who does AI research. The second is that nobody who does AI research truly knows how AI will evolve in the future. The third, and most interesting, is that AI is every bit as flawed and messy as the humans who create it.

These things might be annoying for the scientists, but for me, lowly sci fi writer, it was a huge relief. I was writing a mystery/thriller, which meant that in-fighting, uncertainty, and fucked-up humans were exactly what I needed.

The asteroid belt is a big, weird, mysterious place.

In the real estate of our solar system, the asteroid belt is like that creepy empty lot that’s sitting between the cute bungalows on one end of the street and the imposing mansions on the other, the one that’s so overgrown you can’t really see what’s been dumped there, except for how sometimes you catch a glimpse of a something that might be a rusty bicycle frame or might be a discarded murder weapon, and there might be a shortcut through it but you know better than to take that path after dark.

The asteroid belt is huge, it’s mostly empty, and everything is unimaginably far from everything else. Until last year the closest we ever got was photos from targeted flybys. I didn’t appreciate its scope and mystery before I started writing Dead Space. Now I know better, and I understand why so many sci fi writers love to set things in the asteroid belt.

You can handwave more than you think in sci fi.

On a similar note, writing my second thriller set in space taught me some valuable lessons about what kind of details you can handwave when writing sci fi.

I do enjoy the intellectual challenge of solving scientific problems in fiction. But more and more I come down on the side of “exactly what you need and no more” when it comes to scientific rigor in books. That’s not always a simple thing to figure out. Does it strengthen the emotional impact to know how the spaceship works? Do the stakes rise if you know how the life support systems function? Does detail about the state of futuristic medicine draw the reader in deeper? Sometimes the answer is yes, because sometimes key parts of the story are in the scientific and technical details.. Sometimes the answer is no, and what the book needs instead is more corpses and explosions and sadness and space crime. Writing sci fi is an ongoing exercise is figuring out what your story needs every step of the way.

You need to know what works in a story as much as what doesn’t.

While my previous books had taught me to be pretty good at identifying where a story has serious problems, somewhere during writing this one I lost the ability to know where it was working. I don’t know why this happened. Maybe it was my natural evolution as a writer, my emotional state, the editors and readers I was working with, the state of the world, the nature of this book, or all of the above. I have no idea.

Whatever the case, I found that trying to figure out what aspects of the book were strong and effective was a bit like trying to determine which kinds of wallpaper paste have the best flavor or which kinds of pebbles feel the nicest when stuck inside your shoes. And that made it very hard to write. What made it even harder was that I didn’t know how to ask for that kind of feedback.

We talk a lot about how authors need to accept criticism; editors joke about the “compliment sandwich” to protect delicate author feelings. But I think we forget that its not actually about accepting criticism or delicate feelings. It’s about making the story the best story it can be. To do that we need to know what could be better, but we also need to know what’s already strong, compelling, and interesting.

Every book grows out of the environment in which it is written.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to separate Dead Space from the year 2020. This is unfortunate, because I think it’s a pretty good book that doesn’t deserve such a scurrilous association.

But I spent the first half of 2020 revising Dead Space, and it was only after the novel was finished did I realize just how much that experience had altered book. My revisions took it farther away from science fictional ideas of AI and space exploration, while at the same time pushing it much deeper into an exploration of corporate capitalism, political corruption, the perceived value (or lack thereof) of human labor, and the many ways in which human systems of economics and politics can fail.

I was also learning just how important it is to recognize that human social systems rely on humans, and humans make terrible choices. I was also learning to have a great deal of sympathy for people stuck in relentlessly shitty situations. Sometimes all of our possible choices are bad choices. Sometimes the whole game is rigged against us.

I suspect the feelings of helpless, unending rage have also seeped into the book in ways I don’t even recognize. I haven’t read a word of it since I turned in the last proofs. I’m a little bit afraid of what I’ll find.

***

Kali Wallace studied geology and earned a PhD in geophysics before she realized she enjoyed inventing imaginary worlds more than she liked researching the real one. She is the author of science fiction, fantasy, and horror novels for adults, teens, and children, as well as a number of short stories and essays. After spending most of her life in Colorado, she now lives in southern California.

Kali Wallace: Website | Substack | Instagram

Dead Space: Mysterious Galaxy | Powells | B&N | Indiebound | Bookshop | Amazon

Althea’s world is ruled by Cronus, the God of Gods, whose inheritance is the world and women, his playthings. He takes mortal women as prizes and discards them when he’s through. No woman dares to defy him.

After her mother is taken from her and dies as a result of Cronus’s cruelty, Althea is determined not to suffer the same fate as so many women before her. To honor the dying wish of her mother, Althea promises to take care of her sisters no matter the cost.

Following the vision that has been revealed to her by the Fates—that she will crush the Almighty and free the world from his terror—Althea travels to the southern isle of Crete, where women who seek refuge from Cronus live hidden among the exalted Boy God. The Boy God, Zeus, the only son of Cronus, is believed by most of the world to be dead. But he is very much alive and his destiny is tied with Althea, for the Fates foretold that he too will destroy his father.

As Althea and the Boy God train and gain support for their fated journey, Cronus learns of the rebellion and begins amassing his own army to quell any resistance. Cronus may be The Almighty, but Althea will not fail her mother, sisters, or the imprisoned women helpless against the cruel god. 

***

It’s…complicated

Writing a book based on Greek Mythology required loads of research. Those clever, creative Greeks often had more than one version of the tales about their gods. For example, take the origin story of Aphrodite. Some say the Goddess of Love was born from the blood Uranus shed during his castration. Drops fell upon the sea and turned into foam, and Aphrodite arose from the foamy water as a fully formed woman. A less dramatic version tells that Aphrodite was the daughter of Zeus and Dione.

Greek Mythology is full of conflicting stories. To write Wings of Fury, I had to research them all, select one version to bet on, and then be prepared to back up my decision. Some could say this mythology is as complicated as the gods for which it’s about, and they would be right.

Zeus was a sack of shit

Zeus was known for his wandering eye. His first wife, Metis, Goddess of Wisdom, didn’t have to put up with it for long, but only because Zeus swallowed her. (Talk about an unhealthy marriage.) Metis was pregnant when he ate her, and while inside of him, she gave birth to their daughter, Athena, who then hatched from his head. Of course, the oh-so-humble Zeus took full credit for birthing one of the fiercest warriors of all time.

Meanwhile, Zeus was hooking up with Leto, Goddess of Motherhood, who later birthed twins, Artemis and Apollo. Hera, Zeus’s second wife, refused his marriage proposal, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he tricked her and seduced her into matrimony. Hera became known as the Goddess of Marriage. Sad, isn’t it? Hera was forced into wedlock and then gained the reputation as a jealous queen who had multiple fits of temper, usually regarding her sleezy husband. I’m not going to delve into Zeus’s countless indiscretions. All I’ll say is this: Zeus was consistent.

Cronus was a bigger sack of shit

Cronus was one of six sons of Uranus and Gaea. When it came to dethroning his father, Cronus was the only one willing to pick up the adamant sickle and castrate him. Sounds pretty personal, doesn’t it?

After Cronus usurped the throne, he was paranoid that one of his children might do the same to him, so every time his consort, Rhea, had a child he swallowed their infants. He devoured Hestia, Demeter, Poseidon, Hades, and Hera. But when it came to their youngest, Zeus, Cronus’s mother had other plans. Not only was Cronus power-hungry and paranoid, he was a liar. Gaea had given him the sickle to take down Uranus, and in return, Cronus was supposed to release her imprisoned children—the hundred-handed monsters and the Cyclopes—from the underworld. Cronus did no such thing, so Gaea waited until Rhea was pregnant with Zeus and then helped her stash away the newborn on the island of Crete. Rhea gave Cronus a stone to swallow instead. Apparently, Cronus was more brawn than brains, because he was none the wiser, until Metis (remember Zeus’s first wife?) tricked him into eating an herb that forced him to throw up his children.

Bad father. Bad husband. Bad son. Cronus was the worst.

Oceanus was a badass

Not all Titans were dirtbags. Oceanus was one of the six sons of Gaea and Uranus. When Cronus took up the sickle to castrate their father, he had help. His brothers Iapetus, Coeus, Crius, and Hyperion pinned down dear ol’ dad while Cronus swung the blade. You can imagine how big of a fight Uranus put up to protect his family jewels… Anyhoo, Oceanus was the only son who didn’t offer aid. For this, Cronus cast him out.

Maybe Oceanus knew Cronus would be a terrible leader. Maybe he was loyal to his father. Or maybe he was simply a peacemaker. Whatever the reason, Oceanus stood up to Cronus first, long before Zeus was a twinkle in his mother’s eye.

The Titanesses kicked ass too

Gaea and Uranus had six daughters—Tethys, Theia, Phoebe, Themis, and Mnemosyne. I highly doubt the Titanesses sat by and watched while their brothers (and in many cases husbands…yay for royal incest) dethroned daddy. When their brothers held down Uranus so Cronus could spay him, they must have had an opinion about it. Perhaps they helped pin him down too, or maybe they tried to stop their brothers. We don’t actually know.

Fast-forward to the next generation of goddesses: Cronus’s daughters—Hera, Demeter, and Hestia—didn’t sit by idly. They united with Zeus and battled Cronus and his allies in a ten-year war that earned them the honored title of Olympians.

The Titanesses deserve their time in the spotlight. In Wings of Fury, these goddesses finally get their moment.

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Emily R. King is the author of the Hundredth Queen series, as well as Before the Broken Star, Into the Hourglass, and Everafter Songin the Evermore Chronicles. Her latest novel, WINGS OF FURY, will be released March 1, 2021, the first in the Wings of Fury duology. The second book, Crown of Cinders, will be released October 5, 2021Born in Canada and raised in the United States, she is a shark advocate, a consumer of gummy bears, and an islander at heart, but her greatest interests are her children and three cantankerous cats.

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Wings of Fury: Amazon