ARCHIVED FEATURE: Finders Keepers

Genre: Science Fiction Romance
Format: Mass Market Paperback
ISBN: 0553587986
Publisher: Bantam-Spectra

Blending hard SF with sizzling romantic suspense, Linnea Sinclair brings readers this red-hot adventure of two space outcasts on a collision course with destiny. Now that this star-crossed couple have found each other, the universe won't know what hit it...

Trilby Elliot is a barely legal independent trader. Rhis Vanur is the arrogant Zafharin military officer she rescued from a crash landing. It would have been a miracle if they survived each other's company on Trilby's slapdash starfreighter even under the best of circumstances. And these are far from the best of circumstances. For Trilby's best friend is missing and the warlike 'Sko are hunting both Trilby and Rhis. Suddenly they're in it together, for better, for worse--or until death blasts them to oblivion...

Nebula-award winning author, Catherine Asaro, has called Sinclair “…one of the brightest new voices in science fiction romance!”

...With peppy, laugh-out-loud dialogue, an outstanding cast of supporting characters and a big serving of adventure in the mix, Finders Keepers is guaranteed to show readers a pleasant and thoroughly entertaining time."

--A.M. Dellamonica for Science Fiction Weekly

"Finders Keepers has the "wow!" factor in spades. While at heart a rich, deep, complex sci-fi novel that will thrust readers into a dazzlingly different orbit, Ms. Sinclair has managed to incorporate an equally rich, deep, complex romance into the plot; the kind that makes a romance reader more than a little weak in the knees. The sci-fi and romantic elements mesh beautifully... Quite simply, this is a fascinating futuristic romance. The plot and characterizations are detailed, dynamic and deeply immersive and make this super-charged sci-fi release twice as interesting as anything this reviewer has come across before...Well-developed and wonderfully imaginative, Finders Keepers has "exceptional merit" written all over it. Linnea Sinclair is definitely an author to add to one's auto-buy list. [T]his is one terrific, not-to-be-missed, action-packed sci-fi romance!"

....The characters are well-rounded and not merely cardboard figures which gives the book more depth than perhaps a straight forward romance would have. The story is skilfully written with a number of twists and turns in the plot which is space opera at its best filled with suspense, double-dealing and space battles and unfolds against a background of a universe with its own political, economic and social structures. The author creates this background with a light touch without needing great slabs of narrative which in itself is a great skill....I thoroughly enjoyed this book and would recommend it."

“Linnea Sinclair is one author to put on your “must” read list. FINDERS KEEPERS is knock your socks off storytelling with riveting characters that send you into orbit and keeps you there. Electrifying action that is nonstop, superb secondary characters, the threat of great danger from hostile factions, betrayal and everlasting passion. This one is a keeper!”

Linnea says, "I'm a former news reporter and retired private detective who yearns for more adventure than 'Hold the presses!' and stacks of case files can provide. The role of starship captain was my dream long before James T ever uttered "Beam me up!". Writing stories is my way of living that dream.

When I'm not tinkering with a recalcitrant sublight drive, you can find me in south Florida, living with my very patient husband, Robert, and two thoroughly spoiled cats."

The Careless Venture’s intruder alarm erupted through the cavern with a harsh wail. Trilby Elliot shot to her feet, knocking over the makeshift repair table. Sonic welder and integrator cables clattered against the cavern floor.

She bolted for her freighter’s rampway. Overhead, a nest of sleeping bloodbats burst out of the rocky crevices like small, leathery missiles. The panicked bats, a crazed cluster of dark speckles, spiraled in front of her. Screeching, they fled through the wide mouth of the cavern into the lavender twilight.

She reached her rampway just as a silver object flashed across the sky behind them.

“Damn. Double damn.” Another ship here meant big trouble. Even a little trouble was more than she could handle right now.

Coils of black conduit snaked down the freighter’s corridor, humped over the hatch-tread into the bridge. She sidestepped the cables and reached for the alarm, slapping it into silence. A flick of her thumb activated intraship. She shouted the obvious. “Dezi, we got incoming! Take the bridge.”

“On my way, captain.” A reassuring reply came from three decks below in maintenance.

Lights blinked in a crazed staccato on the scanner console. Data, ominous and irritatingly incomplete, spilled down the screen. The incoming ship was small but her malfunctioning equipment refused to pin down its origins. It could be a Conclave scout ship; it could be a pirate probe. It could also be the first of a squadron of fighters from the Gods-only-knew-where.

She grabbed her binocs and laser rifle from the utility locker, tabbed the intercom back on. “Main scanner’s still not cooperating. I’m going outside for a visual.”

A wave of late afternoon heat assailed her as she passed under the cavern’s high arch. She crouched down between a nest of scrub palms and moss-covered boulders, scanned the sky with her binocs. The bright rays from the setting sun flared into her eyes.

“Damnation!” She flicked her thumb against the auto-filter. Nothing happened. The filter was stuck, again. She smacked the binocs against her thigh, winced, and then brought them back up.

They hazed for a moment then adjusted. She panned the horizon, looking for movement, listening for something other than the jungle’s thick silence and the pounding of her own heart. Five minutes passed. Sweat stained her drab-green t-shirt in dark, uneven patches.

Then a flicker, a metallic glint. She locked the binocs on it. The image came into focus and her sweat-dampened skin chilled as she recognized it. It was a Trahtark, a ‘Sko high-powered fighter, its distinctive slant-winged shape silhouetted against the sun’s final flares.

Quickly, she panned a three-sixty. The rest of the squadron must be there, somewhere. Which also meant a mothership in orbit. Somewhere. And somewhere was a place much too close for comfort.

The fighter blinked in and out of the purpling clouds, skittering like a frightened mizzet on a sheet of ice. Even blind drunk, Trilby knew she could fly better than that. It veered out of a cloudbank. She saw the unmistakable signs of laser damage scoring the portside flank. Now the fighter’s seesawing motions made sense.

She took another quick scan of the sky. A Conclave border squadron in pursuit of the Tark might pick up her own energy signature. She’d have a bit of explaining to do, then. And no doubt a handful of fines to pay with money she didn’t have. But the scan revealed nothing.

Then the Tark dropped so close to the top of the jungle that she held her breath, waiting for the sound of impact.

It came with a grinding, screeching, snapping sound — metal against damp wood — then metal against rock. The Tark screamed to a halt on one of the few areas of jungle floor that wasn’t submerged under Avanar’s infamous swamps. Trilby was already on her feet, surveying the area with her binocs now set on night-watch. The first glimmer of orange flame licked into the night sky. A few minutes later she smelled a hint of acrid smoke, invisible in the diminishing light.

She panned another three-sixty. A Conclave patrol would have been here by now. But the skies were empty, quiet.

Her breathing and heartbeat slowed to normal. And a wicked smile crept across her face. The Tark’s status had just shifted from threat to profit.

She judged the crash site to be about two miles to the south. A safe distance but clearly workable. Not for a rescue; a Conclave ship in distress would’ve had her already moving, hollering at Dezi to load a ‘scooter with a med-kit.

This was ‘Sko. Which was, as far as she and every other Independent freighter captain were concerned, just another word for intergalactic garbage.

She catalogued her options. The sun had slipped away as she watched the ship, and the night air wrapped around her bare arms like a damp and heavy cloak. The first of Avanar’s three moons had risen, pale and sickly.

Not the most ideal conditions in which to perform a salvage attempt, especially on a fire-damaged ‘Sko fighter. If she waited until morning, the flames licking at the starboard wing of the Tark would have died, the metal cooled. And the ‘Sko pilot, if injured, would be weakened, or preferably dead. Probably should wait until morning, although she’d be battling sweltering temperatures then.

But the fire flickered out as she watched. Doused, she assumed, by an emergency extinguisher system.

That was good. In fact, it could be more than good, she told herself, realizing she’d already made the decision to inspect the downed Tark in spite of the encroaching darkness and unknown status of the pilot. It was the answer to her problems. With minimal fire damage, there was sure to be something salvageable, something to sell at Port Rumor or Bagrond. ‘Sko components were rare and brought more than decent money, even at salvage rates.

Decent money was something Trilby was a bit short of right now. And her supply of indecent money was running perilously low...

She caught the glint of Dezi’s metallic, somewhat humanoid form as she turned around. The DZ-9 ‘droid waited at the base of the Venture’s rampway. The bulky freighter loomed over him, almost protectively. They’d been in the middle of repairs when the alarm had wailed in warning.

"Looks like we got a keeper," she told the ‘droid as she trotted towards the slanting metal rampway. "Bring out two AGS with loaders. I’m going to grab some more firepower, just in case we’ve got company."

She ducked through the airlock, grinning, as Dezi’s voice trailed off behind her. Four months ago that small courtesy would’ve sparked a big dissension. Jagan had always found her habit of thanking Dezi annoying. ‘Droids were one of many things that didn’t require appreciation, in his way of thinking.

But she was no longer concerned with Jagan Grantforth’s way of thinking, and so was free to revert to her impulsive and irresponsible ways. Or however it was that Jagan and his mother had termed how she lived her life.

She could still see his handsome and haughty face on his last transmit: "Mother was right. You are nothing but low class trash from Port Rumor."

Better than high class trash from Ba’grond. She’d wanted to tell him that, but never did. By that point in their relationship, she knew they didn’t even speak the same language.

She shook off the bad memories, plucked her faded service jacket from her closet then went in search of an extra laser pistol that worked. She stepped off the ramp to find Dezi complaining about one of the AGS.

"I do believe, captain, that the support stands for these units must be replaced very soon. You can see here where this bar is completely rusted. Should something of a greater weight than I be seated—"

She sighed. "We’ll add it to the list, okay? But the AGS are going to have to wait until we get the comm pack back on line and my portside scanner replaced. AGS stands aren’t going to be a whole lot of help," she said, straddling the bulky scooter, "in avoiding ‘Sko nests between here and Port Rumor."

But Trilby had already gunned her scooter, activated the anti-grav unit and dropped over the ledge and out of sight by the time Dezi reached the point of explaining just what he was about to do. And doing it.

* * *

She set the AGS down as close as she could to the smoldering wreckage. The ‘Sko fighter had flattened an area in the jungle at least twenty feet wide and three times as long before it ended up in a grove of gnarled harelnut palms. One of the bronze giants tilted sideways, its long drooping fronds sooty and brittle from contact with the remains of the Tark’s fire-blackened engine. Headlamp flooding the scene before her, Trilby flicked the safety off her pistol.

The sleek fighter was skewed into the soft ground, its starboard wing ripped from the fuselage. The port wing impaled the thick fronds of another tightly packed grove of palms. But other than that, it was surprisingly intact. She didn’t know if she should give credit to the pilot or the auto-guidance system.

She placed her headlight on wide-beam, throwing a swatch of light over the wreckage. Dezi followed suit.

"You start aft. I’ll take a look up here." She grabbed a hand beam from the AGS’s utility compartment and played it over the cockpit area. The canopy had sheared off, leaving the cockpit open and exposed. She steeled herself for the inevitable mangled remains in a flightsuit; she’d seen no chute deploy prior to impact so obviously the pilot didn’t have a chance to eject.

"Watch my back." She transferred her beam to her left hand and brought her pistol, primed, into her right. "Our pilot’s disappeared."

"Tell that to the pilot when we find him. ‘Cause he’s not in there. Which means," she played her beam in a slow, wide circle around her, "that he… or she… is out there. Somewhere."

The night seemed to close in on her. The pale light of the moons elongated the shadows, and they danced and wove eerily in the periphery of her high beam.

Someone or something was out there. She listened carefully, hearing only the sound of her own breathing and the slight squeak of Dezi’s joints as he moved in the opposite direction. She damned herself for not latching the datalyser on her utility belt. But the life-form sensor had been relegated to her growing pile of nonfunctional equipment.

Well, live and learn. She hoped she would manage the former long enough to do the latter.

She swept the area with her beam again, probing the recesses of the night, searching for the telltale red of the ‘Sko uniform. Blood red, like the carnage they caused devastating trade depots, mining colonies, cargo freighters. The ‘Sko acquired, butchering whoever stood in their way, including their own wounded.

You’d better be dead, you motherless-son-of-a-Pillorian-bitch. After all, she didn’t ask for the ‘Sko to crash, right in her front yard. But the fact that he did, and the fact that Trilby was, as far as she knew, the only sentient being on a world that most of civilized space wanted nothing to do with, gave her the unalienable salvage rights. Finders keepers. It was worth the risk.

She desperately needed the money. And only someone as desperate as she was would be crawling around in the Avanarian jungle at night, looking for a—hopefully—dead ‘Sko.
She found his boot heels first and froze in her stance. A male, from the size of the boots. Her beam traveled up the length of his uniformed legs. Black. Not red.

"You appear to have found him." The ‘droid’s beam played up the length of the man’s back and over a head covered with dark hair. The pilot had fallen face first, his arms extended crookedly over his head.

Dezi bent closer to the pilot’s head. "Actually, no. There is evidence of a slight respiration."

"Damnation." Trilby hunkered down next to the pilot, the light from her beam illuminating his pale profile. The long grasses hid all but one dark brow and a closed eye. A purplish bruise had already formed on his cheekbone.

She pulled at the dark cloth of the jacket collar, revealing a black shirt, and a collar with a distinctive gray diamond-shaped design. Beneath, she found the pulse she was looking for. It was strong.

Was it? Trilby asked herself as she and Dezi carefully loaded the unconscious form on the expanded pallet of the AGS. The Empire and the Conclave, in which she claimed a loose citizenship, were rivals, maintaining a trade relationship with only the barest sheen of civility. But they had been enemies in the past. The Imperial-Conclave War had ended about three years ago.

She wasn’t political but neither was she stupid. The Zafharin Empire was powerful, very powerful. If it hadn’t been for the advent of ‘Sko aggression, they probably would have annexed all of Conclave space years ago.

A three-year old truce declared she could no longer look upon the man on the pallet as her enemy.

He had, she reminded herself, been dumped on her doorstep courtesy of the Ycsko. That alone would take some explaining...

Kick-butt heroines. Science fiction action. Steamy romance. And a good dose of fun.

I was honored to be praised in the May 23, 2005 issue of Publisher’s Weekly. The book industry magazine called my upcoming December 2005 release, An Accidental Goddess "a romance classic", listing it along with novels by Diana Gabaldon and Judith McNaught.

Nebula-award winning author, Catherine Asaro, has called Sinclair “…one of the brightest new voices in science fiction romance!”

No doubt recent releases in movie theatres across the nation of the latest in the Star Wars® saga, as well as the upcoming sci-fi adventure flick, Serenity, have a lot to do with it. And there's the continued popularity of television sci-fi, from Star Trek to the newly revamped Battlestar Galactica. Readers want to continue to experience those same on-screen thrills, even after the screen goes dark. My novels—which coincidentally, have Star Wars® artist Dave Seeley’s artwork on the covers—provide just that.

Look out, Princess Leia. Move over, Lieutenant Kara 'Starbuck' Thrace. Trilby Elliot—starfreighter captain and star of the first of Sinclair's three 2005 releases from Bantam—FINDERS KEEPERS—is available on bookshelves NOW. She'll be joined on October 25, 2005 by patrolship captain Chasidah 'Chaz' Bergren in GABRIEL'S GHOST, and in December 2005 by sorceress and intergalactic military adviser, Gillaine Davré of AN ACCIDENTAL GODDESS.

How long have you been writing and was it difficult getting your books published?

I’ve been writing for so long I honestly can’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing. I’m an only child and making up stories in my head was a favorite pastime. I began putting them on paper in junior high school. In my twenties, I was active in Trek fan-fic. But I never took the plunge to write fiction full time until I’d completed successful careers as a news reporter and a private investigator. I sold my detective agency in 2000, which was also the year my fantasy novel, WINTERTIDE, was accepted for publication by LTDBooks, a small Canadian publishing house.

Getting published in small press wasn’t that difficult for me. Getting a major NY publisher to acknowledge that science fiction romance was an up-and-coming hot genre and that my small press books—and talent—could make the jump to the big time was considerably more difficult. But it was a jump I was determined to make and I concentrated, not only on winning awards with my books, but on promoting my books so that my name was “out there” in front of the reading public. My agent later told me that when Bantam bought me, they commented that I was the most well-known unknown they’d ever heard of.

I suppose it might have been easier if I’d decided to write in a different genre; mystery, perhaps, or pure romance. But science fiction romance is where my heart and soul is. I write what I love, and what I’d love to experience. For that reason, writing is an intense, personal experience for me and I try to bring that same experience to the reader. I have to write what I love, or I couldn’t write it.

How would you define science fiction romance (SFR) and what elements does the reader find in SFR that she can’t find in other stories?

Science Fiction Romance is, at its core, a science fiction/speculative fiction novel that has—equally at its core and in its theme—the romantic question between the main characters. It's written so that if either core element—science/speculative fiction or romance—were removed, the story would collapse. Or at the least, not be the same novel.

That means if the story's setting could easily—and without noticeable changes—be swapped from Port Rumor in Gensiira to Port St. Lucie in Florida, or from the bridge of a Zafharin huntership to the decks of a Carnival Cruise Line's ocean liner, then it's not SFR. And if the emotional relationship—and its eventual HEA— between the main characters could be removed and the plot would not be affected at all, it's not SFR.

The combining of the two genres sometimes boggles people. I'm not sure why. After all, the concept is not all that different from a chocolate cupcake. In order to something to be considered a chocolate cupcake, it must 1) contain chocolate and 2) be in the size, shape and form of a cupcake. Science Fiction Romance is just like that, only less fattening.

I don't know if SFR necessarily provides readers elements not found in other stories as much as it presents two (or more) elements they enjoy in one place. Tastes great and less filling, you know? The reader then doesn't have to sacrifice one favored plot element or genre for the other. Two for the price of one. If I think of any more bad clichés I'll let you know, but that's the gist of it.

Alpha women in space seems to be a recurring theme in your books - what’s the appeal of the “kick-butt” heroine? Are you living vicariously through your characters?

Is there any other kind of hero in commercial genre fiction other than one who takes charge, forces things to happen? I suppose there is but for the kinds of things I want to read for fun, there isn't. Since everything I've written has to first please my reading tastes, then yes, my readers are always going to find themselves in cahoots with heroines (and heroes) who eventually grab the universe by the, uh, fruit basket and take control.

The appeal? Writing gurus like Dwight Swain, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, Jack Bickham, James Frey and others have long pointed out that readers read to experience tension, conflict; to participate—at a safe distance—in the resolution of a seemingly irresolvable problem. Our cultures' ancient myths and legends have featured powerful female figures (Hera, Freya, Quan-Yin, etc.). The female whose actions can change the outcome or resolve a problem is nothing new. In commercial fiction, it or rather she did go on sabbatical for a while. However, she's definitely back (and in more than one case, ticked off!).

So I feel the appeal of the strong female protagonist is something deep inside many of us.

As for my living vicariously through my characters, let's see, I've been an investigative news reporter and a private investigator. Have I ever shot footage in a hurricane? Yup. Put my career on the line for a story? Yup. Forged through the Florida swamps for a story? Yup. Done live television (okay, not life threatening but definitely nerve-wracking when you're doing a live news feed and you're being attacked by wasps...)? Yup. Have I ever received death threats, threats to ruin me financially, illicit propositions, and faced the business end of a loaded gun? Yup. So, do I live vicariously through my characters? Uh, no. Rather my characters and I share a similar adventurous attitude and a strong desire to survive.

First, read. Read as much as you can in the genre in which you want to write. Second, realize that writing is both an art and a craft. Yes, the muse must speak to you. But it’s up to you to put that creative inspiration in a grammatically correct form, or you’re wasting your and the muse’s time. Study and understand plot structure, characterization, conflict and dialogue. For all that fiction is freewheeling creativity, it’s also rules and regulations.

There are plenty of books out there to help you do this. My favorite is Dwight Swain’s Techniques of the Selling Writer. When I teach writing, I tell my students that if they can buy only one book, buy that one. It’s essential. Almost every published author I know has a dog-eared copy. From there, look for the how-to books by Jack Bickham, Nancy Kress, Debra Dixon and Renni Browne/Dave King. These books work no matter your genre.

Then find a writers’ group—locally or online—that has at least one published author in its ranks (preferably more than one). Get your work critiqued. Learn to give critiques in return.

Writing a publishable novel is hard work. Blessedly, it’s also a tremendous amount of fun. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing—except, perhaps, piloting a starship.