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.

Years after a meteorite strike obliterated Washington, D.C.—triggering an extinction-level global warming event—Earth’s survivors have started an international effort to establish homes on space stations and the Moon.

The next step – Mars.

Elma York, the Lady Astronaut, lands on the Red Planet, optimistic about preparing for the first true wave of inhabitants. The mission objective is more than just building the infrastructure of a habitat – they are trying to preserve the many cultures and nuances of life on Earth without importing the hate.

But from the moment she arrives, something is off.

Disturbing signs hint at a hidden disaster during the First Mars Expedition that never made it into the official transcript. As Elma and her crew try to investigate, they face a wall of silence and obfuscation. Their attempts to build a thriving Martian community grind to a halt.

What you don’t know CAN harm you. And if the truth doesn’t come to light, the ripple effects could leave humanity stranded on a dying Earth…

Excerpt

A NEW ELLINGTON SCORE MARKING THE RETURN TO MARS

Special to The National Times

KANSAS CITY, February 5, 1970—Duke Ellington has been commissioned to compose and perform an original score to celebrate man’s return to Mars. The Ellington composition takes about ten minutes to perform: It includes vocal music entitled “Mars Maid,” to be sung by Ella Fitzgerald.

President Wargin and Ellington watched together as the Marswalkers left their spacecraft this morning. “This is a tremendous day,” the president said, “as we take our next step to establishing a permanent presence on Mars to create a new safe haven for humanity.”

The performance will be staged in the New White House in Kansas City in mid-August when the second dome at Bradbury Base will be opened and the colonists now in orbit descend to their new home on Mars. The performance will be transmitted to the Red Planet for the enjoyment of the one hundred men and women living there.

Fem 50, Mars Year 5, Frisol, 1900 hours—Landing + 0 sols

Do you remember where you were when the stars came out? I was with my husband, on Mars.

So many pivotal moments in my life had involved stargazing before the Meteor. I hadn’t seen a clear night sky from the surface of a planet since it struck Washington, D.C., on March 3, 1952. Twenty-six million dead. Numbers have shape and texture in my head, and this one was dense and pitted and worn smooth from seventeen years of grief.

Seventeen years since the Meteor and here we were on Mars. Above the undulating horizon of Gale Crater, the Martian night twinkled. The stars did not blaze in crystalline perfection the way they did in space. They sparkled through the atmosphere. Blue and red, silver and gold, danced against a deep purple.

The stars that had been our navigational aids on the voyage here drew my eye like old friends.

I wanted to linger on the surface of Mars and stargaze with Nathaniel, not knowing when I’d be suited up and outside at night again. But it was a selfish waste of consumables.

I needed to head into Bradbury Base, where the rest of the team was, but as soon as I did… as soon as I finished that last item on my checklist, I would stop being a pilot and switch to my other role as second-in-command on the mission.

Nathaniel leaned his helmet against mine. “What’s going on?”

“Hm?” I blinked and turned my head to smile brightly at him. We were on Mars! After years of working to get off Earth, we were here as part of the Second Mars Expedition. We were the next step in creating a new permanent home for humanity. I should be happy. I was happy. “Just enjoying the stars.”

“Uh-huh… For the record, how long have we been married?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Twenty years.”

“Twenty years! And none of this gear hides your fretting face.”

“Fretting face?” I rolled my eyes, but I could feel the line between my brows relax. “Fine. I’m fretting because I’m about to have to go inside and be in charge. Why did I let Nicole talk me into this?”

“Well, I mean, she is the president of the United States.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “And very persuasive.”

The bean counters back on Earth had wanted me—no, they’d wanted the famous Lady Astronaut of Mars in a visible command position to lend credibility to the mission. That should have come from the actual mission commander, but Leonard Flannery was Black. He was also eminently more qualified to be mission commander than I was. He’d landed on the planet on the first mission. I hadn’t. But I was very good at being a pretty face for publicity.

Thank God we were past the days where we had to avoid mentioning that I was Jewish. Mostly past.

“All right. Let me finish this checklist and we’ll go in.”

I walked around our landing craft, the Esther, one last time to check the tie-down straps. The landing pad was the same familiar shape as the one on the Moon, but a soft salmon instead of lunar gray. Everything felt different from training. I’d experienced spacesuits and Moon suits, both were stiffer than a Mars suit. Training on Earth, it was heavier. Training on the centrifugal ring of the Goddard, we always fought the Coriolis effect. Training on the Moon, you couldn’t hear the whisper of wind outside your helmet.

Wind. Just wind. Not the sound of a spacesuit failing.

The hours after landing had been a focused series of checklists and supervising the off-loading while other members of the team got the habitat up and running. Then I’d turned to making sure that the Esther was locked down since it would be a month, at best, before I launched again. And Martian months were fifty-five sols long, so beyond the checklists, I wanted to make sure my ship was tucked in snug and secure.

And she was. There was nothing left to do. The last box was checked on my list.

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About the Author

Mary Robinette Kowal is the author of the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus Award-winning alternate history novel, The Calculating Stars, the first book in the Lady Astronaut series. She is also the author of The Glamourist Histories series and Ghost Talkers and has received the Astounding Award for Best New Writer, four Hugo Awards, the Nebula, and Locus Awards. Her stories appear in Asimov’s, Uncanny, and several Year’s Best anthologies. Mary Robinette has also worked as a professional puppeteer, is a member of the Award-winning podcast Writing Excuses, and performs as a voice actor (SAG/AFTRA), recording fiction for authors including Seanan McGuire, Cory Doctorow, and Neal Stephenson. She lives in Tennessee with her husband Rob and over a dozen manual typewriters.