Catherine Asaro - Irresistable forces

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Catherine Asaro et al - Irresistible Forces.html

Irresistible

Forces

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Catherine Asaro et al - Irresistible Forces.html

Edited by

CATHERINE ASARO

New American Library

CONTENTS

Introduction

Winterfair Gifts Lois McMaster Bujold

The Alchemical Marriage Mary Jo Putney

Stained Glass Heart Catherine Asaro

Skin Deep Deb Stover

The Trouble with Heroes Jo Beverley

Shadows in the Wood Jennifer Roberson

About the Authors

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New American Library

Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group

(USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario,

Canada M4V 3B

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R

0RL, England

First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin

Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, February 2004

2004

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 0-451-21111-1

Printed in the United States of America

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To the dancers and teachers of

The Ballet Theatre of Maryland for their expertise,

kindness, insights and most of all for helping a starry-eyed young girl

reach for her dreams.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the people who made this book possible. To

Denise Little, who listened to my dreams of such an anthology and

led the way; to Laura Anne Gilman, our much appreciated editor at

Roc; to our agent Lucienne Diver, who worked wonders for us; to

Marty Greenberg, for his help and support; to my assistant editors,

Jeri Smith-Ready and Tricia Schwaab, for their thoughtful input; to

the publisher and all the fine people at NAL who put out this book; to

publicist Binnie Syril Braunstein, for her enthusiasm on our behalf;

and to the authors, who were a joy to work with. —Catherine Asaro

INTRODUCTION

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Writers are fond of two adages: Write what you like to read, and write

what you know. I've always enjoyed love stories and I'm a scientist,

so I naturally write science fiction romance. When I first started, I had

no idea it was an unusual combination. I didn't know optimistic

stories of courtship and love had an entire genre called romance or

that science fiction with a strong scientific basis was called hard

science fiction. I just knew I enjoyed both.

I never expected my work to stir controversy. So I was startled by the

commotion my first book caused. Commentators remarked with

surprise on how I blended strong romance with strong science fiction.

Yet to me, both romance and science are integral aspects of life. I

have always thought that the sharp distinction we make between our

emotions and intellects arises more out of cultural expectations than

an intrinsic quality of the human mind.

Some of the best authors in both romance and the genres of science

fiction and fantasy have blended these aspects of our humanity to

beautiful effect, as in Ursula Le Guin's classic science fiction

romance, "Forgiveness Day." In fact, the seeds of speculative

romance are as old as storytelling itself, such as in the Greek myths,

when our ancestors tried to understand both the human heart and the

universe they lived in by invoking a pantheon of gods and goddesses

with the power to alter nature.

Today, what characterizes a speculative romance?

I've often thought of romance as the figure skating of literature.

Skaters constantly seek to perfect their performance, to go for the 10.

Romance seeks to tell the ultimate story of romantic relationship,

including such classics as a Regency tale of a rake falling for a vicar's

daughter, or a time-travel adventure with a modern-day woman

stranded in the past. We watch figure skating or read romances for the

sheer pleasure of seeing it done well. And just as ice-skaters push the

boundaries of their sport with innovative movements, so romance

authors push the boundaries of their genre with innovative ideas. As a

literary movement, romance is an art with many and diverse forms.

With science fiction and fantasy, my thoughts turn to rock music. It

may be wild or lyrical, rough or gentle, based on classical technique

or it may challenge accepted forms, but it always pushes the envelope,

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trying something new. It's no wonder that such music has become

inextricably linked with youthful rebellion: It's about breaking rules.

So it is with speculative fiction. It wants to be different. The stories

may be exhilarating, dark, optimistic, dire, humorous, gritty,

beautiful, in-your-face, or sedate. But they always push boundaries.

Extrapolate into the unknown. The story must differ in some basic

way from our normal lives. It asks the question "What if?"

So how do we mix the genres? It doesn't surprise me that science

fiction romance became popular in hard science fiction. Such works

are about science, and science is about solving problems. Science

seeks to better understand the universe, to extend our knowledge and

discover new insights. That worldview—or perhaps I should say

universe-view—is why hard science fiction is often referred to as an

optimistic subgenre; inherent in many of its works is the assumption

that whatever intellectual problem drives the plot will be solved. Not

all my works or those of other speculative romance authors fit into the

hard science fiction sub-genre, but they do share that optimism.

Romance is the emotional equivalent of hard science fiction;

fundamental to its many forms is the assumption that no matter how

great the problems of the heart, we can solve them and achieve

emotional fulfillment. Underlying romance literature is an intrinsic

faith in the human spirit—a belief in the strength of love, honor, and

loyalty.

In my more mischievous moments, I think of science fiction as a

strapping young fellow showing off for his ladylove, romance.

Intrigued, she comes closer, deciding that maybe this handsome

stranger isn't so strange after all. Science fiction romance is their

marriage. As in any marriage, it succeeds best when the two partners

love and respect each other. A fantasy or science fiction romance will

work if the author enjoys both genres and translates that into her or

his fiction.

In this anthology, I have the pleasure of bringing you stories by many

accomplished writers in both speculative and romance fiction. They

offer a cornucopia of romantic adventures that take the best of these

genres and meld them into a marriage of heart and mind.

Best regards, Catherine Asaro

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www.sff.net/people/asaro/

Winterfair Gifs

by Lois McMaster Bujold

From Armsman Roic's wrist com the gate guard's voice reported

laconically, "They're in. Gate's locked."

"Right," Roic returned. "Dropping the house shields." He turned to

the discreet security control panel beside the carved double doors of

Vorkosigan House's main entry hall, pressed his palm to the read-pad,

and entered a short code. The faint hum of the force shield protecting

the great house faded.

Roic stared anxiously out one of the tall, narrow windows flanking

the portal, ready to throw the doors wide when m'lord's groundcar

pulled into the porte cochere. He glanced no less anxiously down the

considerable length of his athletic body, checking his House uniform:

half-boots polished to mirrors, trousers knife-creased, silver

embroidery gleaming, dark brown fabric spotless.

His face heated in mortified memory of a less expected arrival in this

very hall—also of Lord Vorkosigan with honored company in tow—

and the unholy tableau m'lord had surprised with the Escobaran

bounty hunters and the gooey debacle of the bug butter. Roic had

looked an utter fool in that moment, nearly naked except for a liberal

coating of sticky slime. He could still hear Lord Vorkosigan's austere,

amused voice, as cutting as a razor-slash across his ears: Armsman

Roic, you're out of uniform.

He thinks I'm an idiot. Worse, the Escobarans' invasion had been a

security breach, and while he'd not, technically, been on duty—he'd

been asleep, dammit—he'd been present in the house and therefore on

call for emergencies. The mess had been in his lap, literally. M'lord

had dismissed him from the scene with no more than an exasperated

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Roic…get a bath, somehow more keenly excoriating than any

bellowed dressing-down.

Roic checked his uniform again.

The long silvery groundcar pulled up and sighed to the pavement. The

front canopy rose on the driver, the senior and dauntingly competent

Armsman Pym. He released the rear canopy and hurried around the

car to assist m'lord and his party. The senior armsman spared a glance

through the narrow window as he strode by, his eye passing coolly

over Roic and scanning the hall beyond to make sure it contained no

unforeseen drama this time. These were Very Important Off-World

Wedding Guests, Pym had impressed upon Roic. Which Roic might

have been left to deduce by m'lord going personally to the shuttleport

to greet their descent from orbit—but then, Pym had walked in on the

bug butter disaster, too. Since that day, his directives to Roic had

tended to be couched in words of one syllable, with no contingency

left to chance.

A short figure in a well-tailored gray tunic and trousers hopped out of

the car first: Lord Vorkosigan, gesturing expansively at the great

stone mansion, talking nonstop over his shoulder, smiling in proud

welcome. As the carved doors swung wide, admitting a blast of

Vorbarr Sultana winter night air and a few glittering snow crystals,

Roic stood to attention and mentally matched the other people exiting

the ground-car with the security list he'd been given. A tall woman

held a baby bundled in blankets; a lean, smiling fellow hovered by her

side. They had to be the Bothari-Jeseks. Madame Elena Bothari-Jesek

was the daughter of the late, legendary Armsman Bothari; her right of

entree into Vorkosigan House, where she had grown up with m'lord,

was absolute, Pym had made sure Roic understood. It scarcely needed

the silver circles of a jump pilot's neural leads on midforehead and

temples to identify the shorter middle-aged fellow as the Betan jump

pilot, Arde Mayhew—should a jump pilot look so jump-lagged?

Well, m'lord's mother, Countess Vorkosigan, was Betan, too; and the

pilot's blinking, shivering stance was among the most physically

unthreatening Roic had ever seen. Not so the final guest. Roic's eyes

widened.

The hulking figure unfolded from the groundcar and stood up, and up.

Pym, who was almost as tall as Roic, did not come quite up to its

shoulder. It shook out the swirling folds of a gray-and-white greatcoat

of military cut and threw back its head. The light from overhead

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caught the face and gleamed off… were those fangs hooked over the

outslung lower jaw?

Sergeant Taura was the name that went with it, by process of

elimination. One of m'lord's old military buddies, Pym had given Roic

to understand, and—don't be fooled by the rank—of some particular

importance (if rather mysterious, as was everything connected with

Lord Miles Vorkosigan's late career in Imperial Security). Pym was

former ImpSec himself. Roic was not, as he was reminded, oh, three

times a day on average.

At Lord Vorkosigan's urging, the whole party poured into the entry

hall, shaking off snow-spotted garments, talking, laughing. The

greatcoat was swung from those high shoulders like a billowing sail,

its owner turning neatly on one foot, folding the garment ready to

hand over. Roic jerked back to avoid being clipped by a heavy,

mahogany-colored braid of hair as it swept past, and rocked forward

to find himself face to… nose to… staring directly into an entirely

unexpected cleavage. It was framed by pink silk in a plunging vee. He

glanced up. The outslung jaw was smooth and beardless. The curious

pale amber eyes, irises circled with sleek black lines, looked back

down at him with, he instantly feared, some amusement. Her fang-

framed smile was deeply alarming.

Pym was efficiently organizing servants and luggage. Lord

Vorkosigan's voice yanked Roic back to focus. "Roic, did the count

and countess get back in from their dinner engagement yet?"

"About twenty minutes ago, m'lord. They went upstairs to their suite

to change."

Lord Vorkosigan addressed the woman with the baby, who was

attracting cooing maids. "My parents would skin me if I didn't take

you up to them instantly. Come on. Mother's pretty eager to meet her

namesake. I predict Baby Cordelia will have Countess Cordelia

wrapped around her pudgy little fingers in about, oh, three and a half

seconds. At the outside."

He turned and started up the curve of the great staircase, shepherding

the Bothari-Jeseks and calling over his shoulder, "Roic, show Arde

and Taura to their assigned rooms, make sure they have everything

they want. We'll meet back in the library when you all are freshened

up or whatever. Drinks and snacks will be laid on there."

So, it was a lady sergeant. Galactics had those; m'lord's mother had

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