Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

If you can't be good, be careful

Expand Messages
  • Rowena Cherry
    Insufficient Mating Material is now available in bookstores in the UK and Europe. Are any of you from Britain? If you sight Insufficient Mating Material, I d
    Message 1 of 1 , May 27, 2007
    • 0 Attachment
      Insufficient Mating Material is now available in bookstores in the UK
      and Europe. Are any of you from Britain? If you sight Insufficient
      Mating Material, I'd love to hear about it!


      "Be good..." they say. "And if you can't be good, be careful!"

      It must be almost impossible to be careful when all the worlds are
      watching all the time, and not always sympathetically.

      Princesses and celebrities have everywoman's problems, but their
      problems are magnified a hundredfold by the telephoto lens of public
      scrutiny. Everyone wants to know who they are seeing, what they are
      drinking, what they did in bed and with whom, whether or not they are
      pregnant...

      A single alien princess might precipitate a constitutional crisis if
      an unflattering camera caught her just as a breeze was bellying out
      her bathing costume... especially if it was common knowledge that
      she'd slept with a foreign terrorist for kicks.

      Princess Martia-Djulia has all the problems of a youngest child (the
      third child) but more so. It seems pointless to compete with her
      brilliant older brother and sister. Until senility overtakes them,
      they will always be older, wiser, better-read, more experienced, more
      athletic, more powerful.

      In a world of feudal primogeniture, the older she gets, the lower her
      status. She is only interesting if she is scandalous.


      Insufficient Mating Material's heroine was introduced in FORCED MATE,
      where she got a great deal more than she bargained for when she
      flirted with a handsome --and most unsuitable-- commoner.

      She also went through her brother's private "stuff" and got caught,
      did the gustatory equivalent of spiking the drinks at her brother's
      wedding banquet, made a compromising video of herself in bed with a
      tattooed stranger, and fell hopelessly in love with a hunk who was
      honor-bound to marry someone else.


      She makes her dramatic appearance in Insufficient Mating Material as
      the Royal bride at an Imperial shotgun wedding. As she surveys the
      throngs who have come to see her married to the mate of her dreams
      (who has miraculously been relieved of the fiancee he intended to
      marry and brought back to her) her happiness seems complete...


      CHAPTER ONE

      Never in all Great Djinn history has any Imperial Princess had such a
      Mating Ceremony on such short notice, and to a mate freely chosen by
      the Princess!

      Princess Martia-Djulia savored her unique happiness. The second best
      part was that she was going to get away with it. By taking an alien
      and a commoner like Commander Jason to mate, she poked a defiant
      finger in the eye of Imperial tradition.

      “You’re glowing,” her tall, grimly magnificent brother commented as he
      joined her on the raised throne-stage and offered her the support of
      his bent arm for the slow, gyring descent of the stage into the Throne
      Room below the Imperial suite.

      “I’ve a lot to glow about,” Martia-Djulia retorted. She could have
      made a barbed remark about how Tarrant-Arragon had tricked his own
      cold, pale bride into saying the irrevocable Imperial Mating Vows, but
      she didn’t.

      After all, Tarrant-Arragon had hunted down Commander Jason, and
      brought him back to her.

      Her thoughts returned to her Jason who shared her taste for subversion
      and mischief-making. He was the Mate who would change her sad, lonely
      life; her boring, bottled-up life. He was her rescuer, her lover, her
      private hero, the warrior who made her feel young and beautiful, and
      who awed the Fewmet out of her insolent, uncontrollable sons.

      He was the only male in all the forty-two gestates of her life who had
      ever given her an orgasm.

      Martia-Djulia took a deep, happy breath as the last notes of the
      Fanfare Royal drifted up from the balconies of the Throne Room, and
      the Crown Prince’s throne stage â€"its stark, craggy contours pleasingly
      draped for the occasion in her favorite colors of dusk-sky mauve and
      midnight-purpleâ€" descended silently, like one of her brother’s
      deliberately placed chess pieces, only fortress-sized.

      “I can hardly believe it,” she whispered to herself as she nodded
      graciously to the crowd below. “I’m about to be Mated to the only
      male who has the physical strength to pick me up and sweep me off my
      feet, and the desire to do so.”

      Tarrant-Arragon lifted an eyebrow at her.


      “Oh, when I think of Jason’s passion--” she said, "When I think of how
      violently he knocked the ceremonial headmask off an interfering
      Saurian Ambassador, and of the wicked, sexual insults he threw….”

      “You liked that, didn’t you?” Tarrant-Arragon teased. “But, I hope
      you don’t expect your new Mate to pick you up, attack Saurian
      Ambassadors, and hurl sexual insults in front of our distinguished
      guests.”

      Martia-Djulia took in the carefully orchestrated tableau where she
      stood on the stepped stage, waiting for Jason to make an entrance
      through one of the Throne Room’s soaring central portals.

      What would he be thinking? Would he remember how they met at a
      Virgins’ Ball in this very Throne Room? Would he mentally undress her
      with his strange, dark-nebula eyes and notice that she looked better
      than he remembered?

      Surely, even a fashion hawk like Jason would approve of her sense of
      style. For her second Mating, she could hardly usurp the pallor of a
      Royal Virgin bride. She had chosen the subtle, shifting colors of a
      fast-frozen sea, glittering with the palest, most precious gemstones
      aligned in all the right places for the most flattering effect.

      “They all came back!” Martia-Djulia breathed, gazing out at the heads
      of state, ambassadors, military leaders, and subject royalty who had
      been hastily recalled, some before they had returned home after her
      brother’s nuptials.

      “Of course,” Tarrant-Arragon murmured. “On occasions like this, no
      matter how lofty the ceiling, it is never high enough, is it?”

      The pentagonal Throne Room shimmered with the warmth rising from the
      thronged guests. Massed body heat made the vast room a battleground
      of assorted perfumes and less intentional odors that only Djinn
      nostrils might identify.

      Suddenly, Martia-Djulia was conscious of emerging mature notes from
      her own signature perfume.

      “Tarrant-Arragon,” she whispered anxiously. “Did I overdo the Queen of
      the Night?”

      “You seem to have put it absolutely everywhere,” he drawled, and
      grinned, confirming that his Djinn-sharp olfactory senses were as
      embarrassingly acute as those of a sea-predator.

      “I’ll let Jason lick it off,” Martia-Djulia quipped brazening out her
      secret embarrassment.

      “If he’s got any Djinn in him, he might find that joy a little
      overpowering,” Tarrant-Arragon said.

      Martia-Djulia felt a vague, fleeting apprehension. Was it a certain
      enigmatic tone in her brother’s voice? Something wasn’t right.
      Tarrant-Arragon had once threatened to kill Commander Jason if her
      lover turned out to be of rogue Djinn lineage.

      Why was Jason late?

      Her anxious gaze searched the double avenues of ground-lighted, living
      trees which flanked the four grand entrances.

      “Ah. The so delightful Henquist and Thor-quentin.” Tarrant-Arragon
      jerked his head to indicate the upper level balcony where her two tall
      sons leaned negligently on the elaborately carved stone balustrade.
      “They look pleased.”

      Martia-Djulia smiled hopefully at her usually sullen, sulky sons,
      until she realized that Tarrant-Arragon was being ironic.

      ...

      “Nervous?” Tarrant-Arragon asked mockingly.

      Before she could retort, a loud fanfare made further conversation
      impossible. The pentagonal room vibrated with the thunder of massed
      war-drums. Colored plumes of scented smoke surged up and tumbled from
      the Imperial throne-space, reminiscent of an ultraviolet tinted,
      pyroclastic cloud. The Emperor’s throne-stage thrust up through the
      smoke like a coldly gleaming, ice-volcano rising out of a swirling fog.

      Her father, The Emperor Djerrold Vulcan V, appeared to stroll on the
      pinkish-purple vapor trails, high above his guests. Martia-Djulia
      tried to imprint on her memory every detail of this splendid, dramatic
      illusion.

      “Dear friends, welcome back,” the Emperor began with his customary,
      affable menace. “You are now here to witness the exchange of vows
      between my younger daughter and her new mate. Since The Princess
      Martia-Djulia is a widow, and a mother, and since this is her second
      marriage, there will â€"obviouslyâ€" be no display of proofs of virginity.”
      He pointed his Fire-Stone-Ringed forefinger around the room, his
      guests shrank in their seats, and he smiled tigrishly.

      “There will come a point when my dear daughter will ask anyone who
      objects to her choice of mate to speak out. Anyone who dares to do so
      will be incinerated.”
      Star-blue lightning sizzled and flashed from the Emperor’s finger.
      Regrettably, her father had flatly refused to even try to
      color-coordinate his laser ring’s fire for this one occasion.

      “Out of consideration for your fellow guests’ nostrils,” Djerrold
      Vulcan V continued pleasantly, “I advise against any interference.
      Proceed!”

      High above, another fanfare blared from long, deep-noted instruments.
      The massive central doors at the far end of the Imperial throne room
      opened.

      “I kept my promise,” Tarrant-Arragon said quietly, “…to bring back
      Jason, if he agreed to come, or to find you a mate like your Commander
      Jason.”

      She wasn’t paying attention, though it was an odd thing to say.
      Unseen, a massed male voice choir roared out the Mating Anthem...
      usually heard only once in a generation at the Mating of an Emperor or
      the Emperor's male heir.

      This, too, was her due. She’d been promised that her Mating would be
      as splendid as the one she had organized for her big brother. And so
      it was. Only prettier.

      “Here he comes!” Martia-Djulia whispered, trembling.

      A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette limped from the darkness beyond
      the doorway.
      His beloved, scarred face was a shadowed, distant blur… but something
      wasn’t right. Had Tarrant-Arragon tortured and starved Commander
      Jason into agreeing to Mate with her?

      “What is wrong with him?” she hissed accusingly. Time stretched out.
      A sense of creeping horror chilled her vitals. “You promised not to
      force him.”

      Her thoughts raced back to three Imperatrix cycles ago.

      She vividly remembered what they’d agreed, just before Tarrant-Arragon
      left to exact terrible revenge on the unknown villains who’d tried to
      assassinate him on his honeymoon.

      I want him to be happy, she’d protested when Tarrant-Arragon caught
      her trying to erase compromising footage of Jason on top of her.
      Jason’s happiness hadn’t been on her mind when she triggered the
      surveillance systems.

      Do you think he’d be happy with me if I force him to be my mate? she’d
      asked her brother, who had no scruples when it came to mate
      appropriation.

      No, Tarrant-Arragon had bluntly told her, dashing any lingering hope
      that she could blackmail Jason into returning to her bed permanently.

      At the Virgins’ Ball, Commander Jason had made it clear that he’d
      rather be searching the rim worlds for his errant mate-to-be, but he
      was on duty. Since he had to be at the Ball, he’d been in the mood
      for a revenge dock in any bay that would accommodate him.

      Martia-Djulia had only wanted illicit excitement â€" until Jason gave
      her so much, she wanted him to do it for the rest of her life.

      “Did you force him? Did you torture him?” Martia-Djulia demanded
      urgently.

      “Not really,” her appalling brother replied.

      Something was wrong. Martia-Djulia's heart thumped. She clasped
      nervous hands to her glittering breast, and glared in an effort to get
      a better look at her promised Mate. At this distance, across the
      Throne Room, it was hard to tell…. Closer he came. Closer.


      I hope you enjoyed this glimpse of Martia-Djulia.
      Read her story in Insufficient Mating Material
    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.