Family Law, by Mackey Chandler

It's a bit of a relief to take a break from my run-up to the Hugos, just to read some good books. However, it makes me realize just how many good books and good authors there are out there who DON'T get the recognition they deserve. Mackey Chandler is one of these. He provided me with a review copy of "Family Law," and I can tell you in all sincerity that there is not one BIT of difference in the quality of this work and that of the Hugo-nominated books I review.
Jack and Myrtle Anderson, their almost 13 year old daughter Lee, and their partner Gordon the Derf are explorers, looking for Earth-compatible planets, and they have just struck it rich with the discovery of Providence.

What? Did he just say 'Gordon the Derf?'
Yup, that's what I said. A Derf is a member of one of the sapient races humans encountered on their exploration of the stars. Imagine a grizzly bear with an extra pair of arms, and a big mouth, and you've got it. They are at least as intelligent as humans, but their tribal organization hindered development of technical specialists, so their overall technological level is below that of human society. They were unique, however, in negotiating treaties at First Contact that gave them legal status equivalent to humans, as individuals and with respect to their common rights. Derfs have a long proper Derf name, but those in contact with humans choose human cognates for use in conversation and in transactions.

The Andersons and Gordon have been together for fourteen years, so Lee has known Gordon her entire life. She even refers to him as 'Uncle Gordon.' She has had a small taste of human civilizations, during infrequent planet landings, but her world consists of her parents and Uncle Gordon.
With the discovery of Providence, the Andersons and Gordon have hit a payday that will make them richer than most countries. They each are entitled to claim substantial territory, as well as license fees from those wishing to take advantage of the planet's resources. There is a well-established procedure for discovery, which ensures all parties have reasonable access, thereby eliminating claim-jumping or more unsavory activities. As the discovery party, the Andersons and Gordon also have the responsibility to verify that there are no established sapients, and no chemical or biological hazards present that could possibly spread to other worlds. Even after months of verification, they expect to be placed in quarantine when they return to Earth to record their claim.
Unfortunately, jack and Myrtle never make it that far. A pack of velociraptor-analogues attacks the camp in the middle of the night, overwhelming the defensive perimeter. Jack and Myrtle go down fighting. Gordon's superior size and strength, and his battleax, allow him to continue fighting after the ammunition runs out. When the last raptor is dead, he discovers Lee has survived by hiding in her (ballistic-cloth covered) sleeping bag, and shooting from inside the bag each time she is attacked.
Review note: the night after the attack, Gordon and Lee huddle together in the ship cabin for safety. In the morning, Gordon wakes her up, and when she remembers what has happened, she grieves and clings to her Uncle Gordon for comfort. It's a very, very touching scene. Feelings, and stuff. Ick. I didn't want it to be THAT kind of book! So, I dropped Mackey a note, and told him I was in tears on page 15, and that somebody better get shot and blown up soon. He encouraged me to hang in there; exploding space ships were on the way. He was right!
There is the little story, about Lee and Gordon and family and culture, and there's the big story, about governments and political infighting and bureaucracy. Mackey blends them together to produce EXCELLENT conflict points. There may be those who simply cannot abide a novel without a message; Mackey provides one, although it is so subtly done that it's administered without notice. It has to do with honor and duty, and the nature of civilization.
The little story is told through encounters Lee and Gordon have with other humans and Derfs. We discover that the Derf civilization is totally family-centered, and that there is very little support for a Derf who chooses a life beyond apprenticeship. Gordon is one of those; he had been designated as a barrel maker, and had to leave his home at peril of becoming an outcast to make another career.
The big story begins when Gordon and Lee return to Earth, and Lee finds difficulty solely because of her minor status. Exploding spaceships ensue. I really would like to tell you more, but I can't because SPOILERS would happen.
Even though this was not intended to be a part of my run-up to the Hugos, it brought one point into such crystal clarity that I cannot ignore it: with so much good writing out there, an award such as the Hugo cannot be anything other than random, given the current divisions. Best Novel? Nope, too broad. Give us a Best Military Novel, Best Alien Novel, Best Armageddon Novel, Best Zombie Novel, and several other categories, and THEN we might have something with integrity. As it stands now, regardless of the efforts of Puppies, Kitties, and Special Snowflakes, the award is just too random. Print the names of every novel on a 3x5 card, post them on a wall, and release ladybugs. The card with the most bugs after five minutes wins the award. That, at least, means the selection isn't subject to undue influence, and I think you are just as likely to produce a 'Best Novel' as the current system.

Terms of Enlistment, by Marko Kloos

I anticipate the latter part of this review will give me trouble. The front part, not at all.
This is the latest book in my run-up to the Hugos. Until he withdrew, Marko Kloos' book "Lines of Departure," the second book in his "Frontline" series, was nominated for Best Novel. "Terms of Enlistment" is the first of the series.
Andrew Grayson has gone as far as he can go. There are no jobs, and he has finished all the education that's available. He lives with his mother in a bleak, crime-ridden Public Residence Center, and can look forward to a future of nothingness. Each week, a government-supplied ration is available. And that's the way the rest of his life will go.
All of the world is not like life in the PRCs. He is aware that more affluent people exist, and that they live in houses outside the wreckage of the city. He just has no way of getting there; it seems that just about all the mobility in our society has vanished by the time the story takes place. There are really only two options to get away from the trap: take a hitch on a space colony, or join the military.
Both of these are long shots; I find I can't recall the chances of getting on a colony ship, but less than 10% of applicants make it to the first day of Basic Training, and only half make it to the end. Five years is the term of service, and all pay is deferred until discharge. They aren't joking about the drop-out rate; when they get the uniform issue, all of the items are clearly used. The only new clothing they get is underwear and socks.
It sounds great to Andrew. He gets fed. He's never had anything but the synthetic food provided by the government, so his first meal is the best he's ever had.
I am of the firm belief that every time an author writes about Basic Training, they have a whole world looking over their shoulder. It's composed of every veteran, and every non-veteran who is a fan of military fiction. We don't just read over their shoulders, we poke them and make comments and make rude noises. Most of us happen to think that Camp Currie in Starship Troopers is the best, but that may just be because it was the first version most of us ever read. If you are a real geek, pencil-necked, thick glasses, pipe smoking type, you might have read William Goldman's version in "The Temple of Gold," which came out in 1956, but chances are, if you read it at all, it's because you saw "The Princess Bride" and then read the book. Modern versions were written by Robert Buettner, Brad Torgensen, and Tom Kratman; but in every case, all the vets are muttering,"they'd never have gotten away with that in MY outfit." It's more or less ground into the fiber of our being, somewhere around Week Four. My own personal nightmare was at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, D-7-2, September to November 1972.
Now, I can't argue at all with Kloos on the subject of GI chow. I ate great meals in the Army, and the only time I ever went hungry was when I was sent to Germany, and jet lag took me out of the chow rotation and I hadn't enough money to buy both beer AND food at the NCO club. For me, potatoes for breakfast was a delicacy, and I've never gotten tired of that.
I do have to snark over the coed barracks. I don't know if ANY military is doing that, but if they are, I'm sure there is more coupling going on than Kloos describes. Andrew and his upper bunkmate Halley hit it off, and develop 'date night' in the latrine at 2:00 AM. I don't want to hammer on this too hard; Kloos is a young man, and this is his work. They'd have never gotten away with that in MY outfit, though.
Basic Training completed, the new troops are assigned for further training to one of three branches: Navy (which means space navy), Marines (space marines) and Territorial Army, which is regarded as the dregs by the trainees. Halley turns out to be a natural pilot, and is the only trainee assigned to the Navy. Andrew, of course, gets picked for Army, which almost causes him to quit on the spot. His drill sergeant, Sergeant Burke, notices his reaction and counsels him.
(expletives deleted)

“At ease. You don’t seem too happy with your assignment.”
“No, sir,” I say, trying to not look dejected.
“There’s not a thing wrong with the Territorial Army. I was TA myself before I was assigned a drill instructor slot.”
“I was looking forward to going into space, sir. TA gets all the **** jobs.”
Sergeant Burke looks at me and shakes his head with a snort. “TA is the real military,” he says. “Let me tell you something about the spaceborne careers. The navy guys spend their service mopping decks in windowless metal tubes. The marines get to go play battle kabuki with the SRA, one company against another, arranged like a ****ing sporting event. That’s not soldiering; that’s ******* ***. They’re so convinced they’re the sharp tip of the spear, but you know what? Any TA company I’ve ever served with could mop the floor with any marine company. You know why TA gets all the **** jobs? Because nobody else could handle ’em, that’s why.

And he's right, ya know. The United States has a combat service and some support services. The Army does everything. The Navy gets us there, the Marines protect the Navy, and the Air Force does something. The Coast Guard is different; they handle the incredibly tough stuff the Navy can't take. The Army is boots on the ground. Now, my perspective MAY be altered by the fact that I'm 3rd in a 4 generation string of Army enlisted. My dad WAS a gunner on a B-17, but it was the ARMY Air Corps back then.
Back to the book: following graduation from Basic Training, Grayson gets assigned to an infantry unit, and Kloos gives us approximately 130 pages of excellent combat description. Then there is a major plot development, which I can't say much about without a spoiler warning, and then Andrew gets to apply his skills in a different environment.
I can say THIS: under normal circumstances, you don't get extreme behavior. You will find good people and nasty people, but under normal circumstances, everybody tends to behave in normal ways. However, the world of "Terms of Enlistment" is not what any of us would describe as a normal world. The grinding hopelessness of life in a PRC is the human equivalent of an over-crowded rat cage. Some give up, some prey on their fellows, and some escape; and having escaped, will do anything to keep from having to return. That little sociological lecture goes pretty far in explaining the reason for the best leadership Grayson finds. Under duress, maybe most crumble, but those that emerge are given a lot of opportunity to excel.
I like Kloos' writing. I liked his characters, and the way he tells the story. His world is bizarre in ways I haven't seen before; Andrew Grayson's journey is just as meaningful as Johnny Rico's.
And this ends the easy part of this review.
Here's the hard part. And if you are EXCLUSIVELY a casual reader of sci-fi, the following may not make any sense to you at all. Don't worry about it; it's like trombone music.
Marko was up for a Hugo for the second novel in this series, and on April 15, he announced to the world that he was withdrawing his book from competition. In part, he wrote:

It has come to my attention that “Lines of Departure” was one of the nomination suggestions in Vox Day’s “Rabid Puppies” campaign. Therefore—and regardless of who else has recommended the novel for award consideration—the presence of “Lines of Departure” on the shortlist is almost certainly due to my inclusion on the “Rabid Puppies” slate. For that reason, I had no choice but to withdraw my acceptance of the nomination. I cannot in good conscience accept an award nomination that I feel I may not have earned solely with the quality of the nominated work.

I also wish to disassociate myself from the originator of the “Rabid Puppies” campaign. To put it bluntly: if this nomination gives even the appearance that Vox Day or anyone else had a hand in giving it to me because of my perceived political leanings, I don’t want it. I want to be nominated for awards because of the work, not because of the “right” or “wrong” politics.

Here's what I knew, before I read the book: Marko got the shaft.
I have no informed opinion on either Vox Day or the Rabid Puppies campaign. I DO know more about Brad Torgersen and the Sad Puppies campaign, and THAT'S what I knew to be the source of Marko's nomination.
I ALSO knew, once it was pointed out by Dorothy Grant, that for the first time EVER!!!!! an indie made it to the Hugos. 47 North is the Amazon publishing imprint. That's HUGE. I do not know how many new authors are broken in by the mainstream publishers, but where I'm sitting by the creek, it looks like all the action is happening with Amazon. And Marko's nomination was just as important an event as was the decision by the Science Fiction Writers' Association to allow indie sales to count for membership.
So far, this is merely bad to me, but not gut wrenching. But then I read the heartfelt acknowledgement Marko wrote at the end of the novel:

This novel had its genesis as an application piece for the Viable Paradise SF/ F Writers’ workshop. As such, I owe thanks to all my VP XII friends for their critiques, suggestions, and encouragement, especially Tiffani Angus, Claire Humphrey, Katrina Archer, Sarah Brandel, Madge Miller, Jeff Macfee, Chang Terhune, Steve Kopka, and Curtis Chen, my current VP XII Twitter posse and occasional critique partners. I also owe much to my instructors: Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Steven Gould, Laura Mixon, Uncle Jim and Dr. Doyle, Elizabeth Bear, and John Scalzi, who kindly shoehorned an unscheduled personal critique into his schedule for me. You have all been instrumental to the success of that little Space Kablooie novel you critiqued at Viable Paradise XII.

Here's what tears at me: he lists, with gratitude, the names of people who gave of their time and energy and expertise to his work. They offered him a lot.
But why didn't they offer him a contract? Why must he self-publish, when the instructors include people of importance at Tor Publishing?
Marko withdrew his book from consideration for a Hugo because it was recommended by Rabid Puppies/Vox Day.
Why wasn't this book recommended by John Scalzi and Patrick Nielsen Hayden? Why didn't they get on the phone with him, why didn't write blogs, why wasn't Marko Kloos given the consideration by those he is so grateful to?
I do NOT have an answer for this. Maybe I'm just ignorant; maybe I missed the stalwart defense given by those named above to Marko's inclusion on the list. Maybe they DID offer him private encouragement in the middle of this public storm. I hope that I AM just ignorant, and that my review will be castigated by people presenting clear evidence that I've missed one of the biggest chapters in the 2015 Hugo story. PLEASE: tell me I'm ignorant, tell me that those who taught Marko have never failed to stand by him and applaud his success.
I don't know if it will explain away the fact that he is an indie writer and not in the Tor stable, but ya know what? It's more money in his pocket this way.

Take The Star Road, by Peter Grant

Some mistakes you CAN fix.
It didn't start out as a mistake, actually.
It started out like this: I read a lot of good writing. And, I have recently reflected upon the chain of writers and etc. that have brought me to my present job, which is reviewing books.
It started with Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle with Lucifer's Hammer in 1978. That was followed up, in rapid order, with Flight of the Horse, World of Ptaavs, A World out of Time, and Inferno, and then I realized anything either of them wrote, I wanted. And somewhere along the way, I discovered David Drake. And after a while, I realized that the books I liked had little rocketships on them, and then I found Baen.com and webscriptions, and over time, read Sarah Hoyt. And someone said Sarah had a good column on the Mad Genius Club, so I went there. And, beginning with 'Plant Life' by Cedar Sanderson, I started to read the works of the other authors, and to review them on Amazon. I eventually got a Kindle Unlimited membership, which let me read all KU books on Amazon for 9.99 per month, and I started cranking out the reads and the reviews.
This is where it gets weird. See, I like Tom Kratman and David Drake and Ringo, good stories where you blow things up and kill people. It's because I'm a redneck with a pickup truck and a motorcycle and guns, not to mention my very own gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant foxy praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA. So: I want to read manly books about manly men doing manly things, see, but the authors at MGC, they TURN on me! And they have me read books about PIXIES! And SHAPESHIFTERS! So, I decide I will write, ummm, alternative reviews. So I write a review about shapeshifters that I say is a blisteringly hot LGBT allegory. And I write a review about a romance on a ranch that I say is an allegory of the space race. And they are amused, and I am amused. Here's where the problem happens.
I review one of Peter Grant's books, and decide to do so as if I were a clueless literature professor, who somehow mistook the book as a collection of blank verse. Ha ha.
It was really not a problem at all, because I was just posting my reviews on Amazon, and nobody reads those anyway. I gave the book five stars, which it deserved.
But a month or so ago, I started posting all my reviews on my blog, and people started reading the blog. Not only are they reading the new posts, there are some folks who go back and read the old posts. And that's when I realized I had shortchanged Peter. The book I reviewed was Number 1 in his Maxwell Saga, and #1 is where you get people involved in your series. So, this review, which you are reading right now, is the review which I should have written back in January. If you've got that one, pitch it. It's not even that funny.
Steve Maxwell is a young man doing his best to make his way. Despite being raised in an orphanage, he has managed to get a good education, and taken courses to become a spacer, but he needs hands-on experience to get his certificate. The best he can do is move to the space hub, and scrounge a part time job at Louie's bar as a dishwasher and hope an opening comes up on a departing freighter. His long term goal is to become a citizen of Lancaster, which is the system with the best reputation for good treatment of citizens, and minimal criminal and government activity (I suppose that's related...).
His luck changes one night when the Lotus Tong tries to muscle in on Louie at closing time. Steve downs three attackers with his martial arts skills, Louie takes care of one, and the remaining two flee. Louie has a prior arrangement with the much more powerful Dragon Tong, and calls on them to pick up the bodies. Steve earns their respect, and a debt of honor with them. Louis also owes a lot to Steve, so he gives him full-time work while they wait for a ship willing to take an apprentice.
The ship arrives, in the person of Bosun Vince Cardle of the Sebastian Cabot. He and Louie go way back, doing a bit of grey-market trading together, and he takes Louie's recommendation, and gives him a chance. At the same time, the Dragon Tong, in debt to Steve for saving Louie, pay off with a huge fortune in gold, which is enough to completely cover Steve's spacer equipment and leave three years salary as a next-egg.
Just before boarding his new ship with Bosun Cardle, though, Lotus Tong strikes back. Again, Steve and his allies overcome the attackers, and in disarming them, Steve discovers a peculiar jade knife, which he claims.
What follows is a coming of age story. I rather dislike that every good author who writes a coming of age story in space has to be compared to Heinlein, but there you go; RAH did it so well, that the references come to reviewers, and, well, we have to USE them. How about “Captains Courageous?” Is that okay? Except that Steve isn't a rotten rich kid who accidentally gets forced into maturity. He seeks every opportunity he can, on his own, to better himself, and because he does it without arrogance, and because he never skimps on the job at hand, he receives favor from those in authority over him.
This is not a blood and guts kind of story, although it is through personal combat that we meet Steve. His ambition isn't simply a type of selfishness, either; on one of his first trips, he organizes special snacks for orphans being shipped out of a combat zone. His enthusiasm inspires others, and what starts as a few cookies for the kids becomes an all-hands-on evolution of good will. Eventually, word gets out, and funds and supplies are donated to what becomes known as Operation Sweet Tooth. It's one of the best parts of the book, because it gives many characters, not just Steve, an opportunity to exhibit their depth.
Without getting into spoiler territory, Steve develops a lifelong hatred for piracy. The circumstances allow him to enter the Lancastrian military ahead of schedule, which means his citizenship status is expedited.
And there are dirty doings ahead...
Steve Maxwell's story continues through four books, so far, and each one of them is well worth your time. They are also worthy of good reviews, but this is the only one I shortchanged.
That has now been rectified!

Flight of The Fantasy, by C Blake Powers

After reading this review, I want you to go DIRECTLY to Amazon and get this book. Don't go to the kitchen for a sandwich, don't check your email: just go get this book. You should already have signed up for Kindle Unlimited, so it's a freebie. If you haven't, then it's going to cost you 11 cents per page. If you think that price is too high, then you should sign up for Kindle Unlimited.
Because you need to read this story.
Here's the basic outline: in 1945, a damaged American B24 bomber makes a forced landing in the Libyan desert on the way back from a bombing run. All but three of the crew (led by the luckless Joe Buckley) bail out, and are never heard of again. The pilot, co-pilot, and flight engineer remain with the plane; the pilot miraculously makes a wheels-up landing. The three crew attempt to make repairs to the engines which would allow them to take off, but die of exposure. In 1989, the plane is discovered, with their mummified bodies strapped into their seats.
For those too young to remember, 1989 was a dark year for US/Libyan relations. In 1986, President Reagan had ordered the capital bombed as reprisal against the Libyan sponsored terrorist attack of a nightclub frequented by US soldiers in Berlin; then, in December 1988, Pan Am Flight 103 was destroyed in flight by a terrorist bomb over Lockerbie, Scotland, with Gaddafi claiming responsibility. His acts had been progressively unpredictable, and his policy reversals resulted in an unstable government, which would eventually bring him down. Despite the uncertainty, some contact is always maintained between governments, and this official/unofficial program brought John Ellis to a distant, unused airport to repair the B24, Foster's Fantasy, and fly it out of country, eventually to return to the US.
In addition to the formal, legal limits on his ability to accomplish his task, the bribes, theft, and posturing which form an integral part of the culture all combine to mean that he must work twice to get the job done once. Libyan crews assigned to help him simply refuse. John takes a unique approach: he co-opts the local homeless sand children into forming his crew. These are throw-away children, born of unfortunate alliances, and essentially tossed out into the desert to fend for themselves. They have no illusions about their future; there is a thriving trade in sex slaves, who are sold cheap, usually with the expectation that they will die in the process. He has a total of ten crew, the oldest early teens, most 10 years or younger. Some of them learn how to perform the repair tasks needed, rebuilding engines and guns. All of them find a role, cleaning, painting, able to get into tiny spaces where an adult American can fit, and not insignificantly, keeping others away from the B24 when John has to leave the base for his tent every night.
And there appear to be ghosts haunting the bomber as well.
While the culture is both alien and abhorrent, John does find one point of contact. The Libyan social rules demand that the more you despise another, the more flowery and respectful your language must be. John, like myself, grew up in the deep South, where “Bless your heart” is one of the fiercest cutting tools ever expressed. I do so attest that this is the case, and have been known to use that phrase in a context which would not support vulgarity; the message, however, is nonetheless transmitted.
With the background of the unstable Gadaffi government and the 'inshallah' culture of the desert, John and his ten sand children labor to get Foster's Fantasy into flying condition.
I mentioned the ghosts.
There is another complication as well, one which is a function of the disintegrating Soviet Union and the lack of trust within the Libyan government. This element provides the key to a problem brewing in John's mind: can he leave his sand children when he flies out, knowing that they will inevitably become victims of either the legal system or the slave trade?
Now: you have finished the review. Go DIRECTLY to Amazon, and GET THIS STORY! I expect you to take care of this before the end of the day. Got it?

Tales of the Rainbow Bridge, by a. abbie aardmore

Months and months ago, I wrote a series of posts on Baen's Bar in which I postulated that the reason for the fantastic success of the 1632 series was that Eric Flint had wisely created the title so that it would always show up at the head of book lists. I was roundly and severely ignored.
Not, it would appear, by that sixth iteration author, a. abbie aardmore. Brilliant strategy! However, the title page contains a 'hint,' and by that, I mean dead giveaway, since the copyright is in the name of Rebecca Meluch.
In retrospect, I should have read this book in the northwest corner of my yard. The trees provide shade and privacy. I have company out there. Under a tree, her collar hanging from a branch, sleeps Darlin Ann, my sweet little tabby cat, who was with me from my first apartment as a civilian in 1976, to this, likely the last house I will ever own. And, in a row, are three little mounds, covered in white stone. Jumper Bill, the precious beagle/redbone mix, who delighted us with his enthusiasm; Napoleon Robert (Poley, or Nappy Bob), my mother's companion in her latter years, who came to us for his hospice, days, when my mother had to move into the assisted living community; and Minerva June, the cuddle-loving black lab/ Rottweiler mix who sang, and greeted me every day with joy when I came home from work, and loved to go for a ride in the truck, and hated to go take a bath in the tub, but complied, and who got to spend her last years as a companion to Presley, the basset puppy my son and daughter in law adopted at birth.
“Tales From The Rainbow Bridge” is a gift to all of us who have loved our animals. Rebecca gives a sweet name to the relationship: “heart-holders.”
The story is told from the perspective of Zach, who loves his human Mireille. Zach is with Mirelle, on a pile of old blankets on the floor of the vet's office, and he's old, and sick, and tired; but he is with Mireille, and that's what matters. But he wishes Mireille would stop crying. The vet comes in and does something; it doesn't bother Zack, he doesn't feel anything anymore. And then he's floating, and he looks down, and sees Mireille crying and holding onto this old, lumpy sack of fur that looks a bit like him. Something is pulling him up and away, and he realizes he feels just fine, nothing hurts, and he's strong, and he calls for Mireille to take him home, because he feels good now, but he keeps getting pulled toward the brightness, and he can't get any traction, and he keeps calling for Mireille; and then he is lying on soft, sweet grass; the tunnel he came through closes, and no amount of digging will re-open it, and finally Zack is able to listen.

Warm noses and furry sides surround me. Voices assure me, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“I know I’m okay! My Mireille needs me!”
“She will be okay, too. In time,” a soft-eyed golden retriever tells me. “I’m Shelby.”
“Shelby, get me home!” “
This is the way it’s meant to happen,” a big, placid bullmastiff tells me. “When we go first, we come here to wait for our heart holders.”

And that's the way it is. Zach still struggles to get back, but in the interim, he accepts a role as the greeter dog. He explains to new arrivals what has happened to them; how everything they want is here, and it's okay to dig in the gardens. The last piece clicks into place when Aggie's heart-holder shows up. Aggie, the big red bloodhound, flies over the field, and jumps into the arms of her woman and knocks her down. They roll on the ground together, laughing, Aggie singing in between licking her heart-holder's face. And then the sky begins to glow, and a rainbow bridge forms. And Zach realizes where he is. Mireille had read the poem to him on that last trip to the vet.

By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill,
Is a lush, green meadow where time stands still.
Where the friends of man and woman do run,
When their time on earth is over and done.

For here, between this world and the next,
Is a place where each beloved creature finds rest.
On this golden land, they wait and they play,
Till the Rainbow Bridge they cross over one day.

No more do they suffer, in pain or in sadness,
For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness.
Their limbs are restored, their health renewed,
Their bodies have healed, with strength imbued.

They romp through the grass, without even a care,
Until one day they start, and sniff at the air.
All ears prick forward, eyes dart front and back,
Then all of a sudden, one breaks from the pack.

For just at that instant, their eyes have met;
Together again, both person and pet.
So they run to each other, these friends from long past,
The time of their parting is over at last.

The sadness they felt while they were apart,
Has turned into joy once more in each heart.
They embrace with a love that will last forever,
And then, side-by-side, they cross over… together.

(author unknown)

Rebecca's book takes the poem, and fills it out with stories of dogs, cats, ferrets, and horses, and even people. In this waiting are, nothing is denied to the animals. They hold couch destroying contests, and it's okay. And one day, shoes rain from the sky, and, marvel of marvels, the shoes belong to the heart-holders. So Zach has something with Mireille's smell, and the other dogs have their own heart-holder's smell. Each of the little vignettes illustrates that It. Really. Does. Work. There is no tear that is not wiped away. All the songs are songs of joy.
Since Minnie crossed over, I've been dog-less. Instead, I've got a fat black Manx named SugarBelly who sits on me. She prefers to sit on my left hand while I'm typing, but if I shake her off enough times, she will condescend to go lie down on my legs. Rarely, she will go off in a snit and hang out with my gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant foxy praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA. Mostly, though, she's Papa Pat's cat. She and I are getting closer to being the same age. I'm a good bit ahead of her, but she's moving faster. I suppose she will cross over first. That's a sad thing, until I remember the Rainbow Bridge.

Raven's Children, by Sabrina Chase

I received my copy of this book as a loan, for review purposes.
Raven's Children is the second novel in the Sequoyah series by Sabrina Chase, and works best when read after “The Long Way Home,” which I reviewed on April 6. However, the character and plot developments are more than adequate to be satisfying to someone who just picks up this as a singleton. It will, however, create a need in that mythical person to get the entire series.
I'm a bit uncertain about how spoilers work when reviewing a series. If a plot point in the second book is a spoiler for the first book, do I ignore it? Hmmm. I don't think so, because then the review for every book in a series after the first would consist of 'more things happen.' Make for an easy review, I suppose...but hardly satisfying.

SO: Who the heck is Raven? And why do we care about Raven's Children? It's like this: Raven is a ship. And the ship is captained by Moire. And the children? More than one answer to that.
The first answer has to do with Alan, the son Moire didn't remember having. It turns out that the Toren company has been using genetic material from Moire and other lost NASA crew to make clones, for their evil, wicked, mean and nasty purposes. The 'protector of the helpless' switch in Moire, locked firmly into the ON setting, means she has to do something about it.
Which brings us to the second answer. The ragbag of crew that Moire was plagued with has decided that things are much better with her around, and so they draft her into being their leader. Which means they go along with her to Do Something About It. And rescue children, who actually have the bodies of adults.

Fleet Intelligence Officer Byron Ennis is also plagued. In his case, it's not with ragbag crew, though. His plague is a crummy duty assignment, for allowing Moire to escape; he's also plagued with gooey emotions when he thinks about Moire, and he has absolutely NO history that will give him a clue on how to handle THAT (even if she wasn't a fugitive from justice). Add to that his continued sense of inferiority due to his origins, and you've got one tightly wound young man.

Here's one of the great things about Sabrina's writing: she has a LOT of plot elements going, so she can afford to have one or two resolve without having the franchise end. And that means, dear reader, that she can afford to let Ennis and Moire gaze into each others eyes instead of avoiding it, and actually (gulp) SMOOCH! YES! THEY SMOOCH!
Hah! Take THAT, Nora Roberts! (Ummm....she's a Romance writer, right? I just looked it up on Google...)

I think I missed the science on how this happened (it has something to do with the hyperspace drive), but Moire and crew find themselves the junkyard of the universe. They get tossed there on the last sputtering gasps of their old ship, but they are able to cobble together repairs from parts from the drifting hulks. They are also able to generate a cash flow by salvage from the parts they bring back to what passes for civilization on the fringe. And then on ONE trip they find...nah, not gonna tell you that.

The evil Toren is not content to sit idly by and let their plans be disrupted by Moire. In fact, there are just too many people who know something, and so a series of unsavory elements sets out to kill all possible witnesses. They are singularly unsuccessful. So, they call in the REALLY bad guy, and he.....noh, not gonna tell you that, either.

Sabrina can flat tell a good story. It will hook you, and I can well believe one of the other reviewers who says she didn't notice when the sun went down while she was reading. So: if you are reading on a Kindle, have a good battery charge, else have a good light source. You'll find you will need it before you are through.

If You Were A Dinosaur, My Love, by Rachel Swirsky

Rachel is a little bit older than my oldest (biological) child. She is a graduate of UCSC (The Banana Slugs) and the Iowa Writers Workshop, which I understand offers the MFA in English. From this, I draw the conclusion that she loves books. Without any direct evidence, I choose to also draw the conclusion that this is a love that she developed in childhood. It doesn't take much more imagination to suggest images of her as a young girl, learning to love stories read to her by parent or grandparent, a love that continued as she learned to read on her own.
One of the great books to hit the scene when Rachel was small was the first in a series of books by Laura Numeroff and Felicia Bond, “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.” My children loved this one, and the next in the series, “If You Give A Moose A Muffin;” sadly, by the time “If You Give A Pig A Pancake” came out, my little ones were no longer little enough to for me to sit with them on the sofa, curled up, and read the words to them while they looked at the pictures and turned the pages. Life cycles on, however, and I now have grandchildren.
Because I have the cadences of the “If You Give” books in my memories, I recognized “If You Were A Dinosaur, My Love” instantly. The implications of each act demand the next, and the repetitions of the phrasing, from each discrete event to the next, resonate from the Mouse to the Dinosaur.
And the phrasings, though certainly of a more adult level in the story of the Dinosaur than in the story of the Mouse, are beautiful. They paint a picture of a fantastic happiness, with a T-Rex crooning love tunes on Broadway, and even of a T-Rex wedding, with the narrator as Best Woman at the wedding. It is truly a lovely work, up to this point.
I don't know why Rachel chose this particular form to tell a story of bloody, bigoted murder, and the destroyed hopes of a young woman. She tells the story powerfully, to the point that I feared that this was an actual experience of hers. Fortunately, I discovered that she has a living husband, who is in fact, a dinosaur fanatic.
I have knowledgeable friends who have objected to the award of the Nebula and the nomination for the Hugo for this story, based on the fact that it isn't science fiction. I have absolutely no opinion on that at all. Obviously, there were others who felt differently. The story has been cited as an example of why there is a need for broader fan input in the awards process.
My position is nowhere near as educated or informed on the nature of science fiction. I am not a writer; I am a reader and reviewer. I rather regret the reviewer role, at this point. It is because I write reviews that I read Dinosaur. If I could choose to undo that read, I would. I would rather have unsullied memories of Mouse and Moose and Pig. I hope, before the next time I read “If You Give A Pig A Party” to Heath or Joshua, that I will be able to disassociate the cadences of this story from the sweetly engaging children's books.