This powerhouse pairing delivers two gripping tales set in far-future, high-stakes universes where character-driven drama collides with pulse-pounding sci-fi action:

Red Star Hustle (Miller)

Meet Aran: a high-class escort framed for murder, now racing across a galaxy of mech battles and wormhole shortcuts. Add a noble clone, a bounty hunter with secrets, and the kind of queer, chaotic energy only Sam J. Miller can deliver, and you’ve got a space noir that blends emotional grit with full-tilt adventure.

Apprehension (Kowal)

When a family vacation turns into a planetary crisis, a retired special forces operative must rescue her kidnapped grandson—bad hip and all. Kowal weaves a layered, emotionally charged mystery set against alien political unrest, proving once again why she's a master of science fiction storytelling.

Together, these stories deliver a dynamic mix of espionage, emotion, and electrifying worldbuilding.

Excerpt

Back when I was in my thirties, I'd spent five long and weary years living on the surface of Namhatanu while the dust and rubble of war had hidden the modern cities beneath corpses both human and Herl. And here I was, forty years later, voluntarily stepping out onto the surface of the planet without a piece of protective gear in sight.

Before, I’d dropped on an Interstellar Service Corps ship with a squad in a streak of plasma. Now, I glided down in first-class seats with my son-in-law and grandson on the orbital elevator down from Piper Nine Station to its terminus in Tali Province, at the equator.

And walking out of the terminus onto the street, I knew I had a problem. It was crowded with vendors and so many Herl. I thought I’d be fine. I’d thought the PTSD was long behind me. But sweat coated me and I knew that old rabbiting in my chest. So many Herl, with their backwards knees and long noses. I started looking for snipers that weren’t there, and drafting escape routes in my head.

Why the hell had I come back here?

Because under the lie of war had been the Herl’s culture of reckless generosity? Or simply because Namhatanu was not Earth.

I had memories here, sure, but not of Sam.

And my son-in-law and my grandson had no memories of Namhatanu at all. Maybe we could all lie our way past grief.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that Jax kept one hand on Tristan as we worked our way through the crowd. It wasn't that I didn't trust my son-in-law to keep an eye on my grandson, it was just that I didn't trust a six-year old to stay focused, period.

“Grandma! Where’s the hotel? How much farther is it?”

“Not too far, sport! I got the route pulled up on my HUD!” I sounded so goddamned cheerful.

“Awesome!” Jax gave a thumbs-up with one hand, and with the other kept Tristan from darting for a display of wooden puzzles.

Indications of when the ISC had occupied the planet after the war, were still everywhere, with signs written in Herl, English, and Chinese. We passed a small group of activists who carried signs in all three languages urging people to vote for Unification. ONE PLANET,, ONE PEOPLE. The area closest to the elevator had cookie-cutter kiosks that catered to tourists, all with terrible pun names like "NamHATanu " which sold hats. And a tanning salon -- so you didn't become orbital-pale -- named “NamhaTANu.” Hell. Somewhere around here, they probably had a restaurant named “NOM NOMhatanu.” The overlay path glowed on my subdermal heads-up display. God. I remembered the days before subdermals -- Hell. I remember the days before HUDs and I do not miss navigating with a handheld.

Herl venders kept calling out to us and to the other passengers disembarking, and I had to work to keep from flinching for no damn reason. I had plenty of Herl friends that I’d served with and kept up with over the years. I knew the difference between nose sacs puffing up in pleasure and feathered crests rising in threat. Damn it all, I was just out of practice at managing old scars. The rabbit in my chest was getting more frantic. I bent my head as if I were attending to our robosuitcases, but they were trundling along dutifully.

Around us, representatives of various species peeled away from the elevator hub. There were more Herl than any other species, which made sense on account of Namhatanu being their home. Some of them wore human-style suits, which accentuated their ostrichlike legs. Other wore the long traditional robes of Sati Province. Most, though, had the closer ribbon bindings of Tali Provence. And I saw more than a few of their feather-like crests fluff in irritation at having to dodge a tourist. After the Herl, I saw fewer humans than had been deployed here during the war, and the occasional fuzzy orb of a Fealif or the slender shape of a Pimin.

Tristian piped up, “Daddy, are we the ones who look funny here?”

Jax made a pained face, and I did not envy him navigating that bit of childish questioning. “Good thought, buddy. But remember what we said about talking about how people look? If it’s nothing they can change in less than thirty seconds, then we don’t need to point it out.”

“Oh, right! Like the bags under Grandma’s eyes.”

“Um. . . A better example would be that we could talk about your favorite shirt.”

Jax shot me a chagrined look with his face while my HUD pinged with an incoming message. Sorry about that.

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About the Authors

Sam J. Miller’s books have been called “must reads” and “bests of the year” by USA TODAY, Entertainment Weekly, NPR, and Oprah Daily, among others, and have been translated into nine languages. They’ve also been banned in Florida and stolen by AI. His work has won the Nebula, Locus, Shirley Jackson, and Subjective Chaos Kind of Awards, as well as the Astounding Award. He’s also the last in a long line of butchers. Sam lives in New York City,

Mary Robinette Kowal is the author of the bestselling Lady Astronaut Universe, The Spare Man, Ghost Talkers, and The Glamourist Histories series. She is part of the award-winning podcast Writing Excuses and a four-time Hugo Award winner. Her short fiction appears in Uncanny, Tor, and Asimov’s. Mary Robinette, a professional puppeteer, lives in Denver.