Of the two romantic leads in Rembrandt’s Station, the man who was once Farric and is now the Monral has been with us as a secondary character since the beginning of Tolari Space, but Bertie didn’t burst into existence until I was writing the third novel, and “burst” is the appropriate word. No sooner had he come to life than he demanded I let him fall in love with Farric, and I had to firmly say no to that at the time. There was simply too much going on in that novel already, so the best I could do was let them be bosom buddies. He acquiesced, rumbling around in my subconscious until my birthday in 2021, at which point he decided enough was enough. He wanted his story, he wanted his guy, and he refused to let me stand in his way. To that end, he began to visit my dreams almost every night. He wouldn’t leave me alone.
“All right, all right,” I said to him. “Go ahead and fall in love. I’ll give you a short story.”
I started writing and realized it would be a novel when I’d written about thirty thousand words in one week. That’s very fast for me, but Bertie drove it hard. He didn’t only want the man he’d fallen in love with. He wanted political shenanigans, he wanted to bring down his family’s adversaries, and he wanted to prove himself as well. I wrote the entire first draft in 26 days. My previous record to complete a first draft was three months.
He did pay a price for it, however. I made him go through a lot for his Happily Ever After.
We know what you like to write, but what do you like to read in your free time, and why?
LGBTQ+ romance, especially if it’s either historical, science fiction, or fantasy. I used to read contemporary as well, but with the state of the world today I mainly want to flee into alternate worlds. I read to escape, not to be reminded of current events!
Within those subgenres, I gravitate to M/M, although really anything goes as long as the protagonists are adults and the characters are interesting. Mystery, murder, mayhem, and the paranormal are all good. A dash of humor is nice too. My favorite tropes are enemies-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, and second chance, probably in that order, although a good love-at-first-sight can warm the cockles of my old heart too. Just give me that Happily Ever After—or at least a Happily For Now.
Were you a voracious reader as a child?
Oh my yes. I read everything I could get my hands on. My books, my brother’s books, library books, anything I could borrow or coax out of my friends, the backs of cereal boxes. Lots of fantasy, starting with Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain books and going on to Tolkien and beyond, and lots of science fiction, starting with the Andre Norton and Robert A. Heinlein juveniles and moving on to such classic SF authors as Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke. On top of all that I read the Harlequin romances that I snuck out of my mother’s book closet. (Fifty years later, I still think she never realized I was reading her books.)
I credit those Harlequin romances with the fact that when I write science fiction, my characters insist on falling in love.
Which of your own characters would you Kill? Fling with? Marry? And why?
Kill: Definitely Adeline Russell. For the good of society. The woman is not so much evil as amoral. She’s utterly loyal to Central Command in general and Central Security in particular, and she will do anything, use any tool, to accomplish its goals. But of course I don’t kill her off because she’s a useful means of keeping my other characters on their toes. Besides, it’s so much more fun when the villain gets to live.
Fling with: That’s a little harder. But since a fling is just about the sex, it’s a toss-up between Adeline Russell and Farryn. Both are highly skilled lovers. They’re both extremely dangerous people, though, so it would have to end amicably or they’d end me.
Marry: I wouldn’t marry any of my major characters. I don’t want to mess up their lives! But there’s a minor character in Rembrandt’s Station I think would be fun to live with. That might end up another story, come to think of it. Watch the skies!
Stationmaster and exiled aristocrat Albert St. John Rembrandt—Bertie to his friends—is in love with a man he’s always believed he can’t have, and finding out the hard way that some Tolari are as poisonous as their planet is only the beginning of his troubles.
A ship has gone missing. His station is in crisis. Bertie must somehow recover his health and manage the disaster while trying to decide whether to accept genetic modification in order to be with the man he loves.
And no Rembrandt has ever taken a gen mod.
Warnings: mention of past off-screen rape of a character who doesn’t appear in the book
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The Monral bent over him. “My love, I beg you—”
“Must… must stay human… the Duke…”
The Monral slammed his other hand onto the treatment bed and looked up at the apothecary, knowing his face betrayed the pain of his next words. “You cannot give it to him unwilling.”
She nodded, her own face betraying nothing. Grimly, he poured more of his own strength through his fingers into Bertie, who rallied a little, bringing the pain roaring back. Pain itself could kill a human. The path to keeping Bertie alive lay along a cliff’s edge. Any mistake would plunge him into the dark.
The apothecary pointed her chin at his hand. “We will do all we can for him, but high one, you must pace yourself.”
He shook his head and turned back to Bertie, willing him to remain in the light. Stay alive. Stay alive! Stubborn human! Why? Why did he risk losing his own life to remain unmodified, to hold himself apart from a belonging he clearly desired?
Poisoned, sickened, in extreme pain—Bertie could not be thinking clearly. Did that give the apothecaries an excuse to disregard his oft-stated opinion about the blessing?
Or—he could make Bertie want the blessing.
The Monral lowered his head. No. That, Bertie would never forgive. When he realized he had been manipulated—and he would—he would hate them all.
At least he would be alive to hate them.
The Monral wiped at stinging eyes. He could not betray Bertie now, though the consequences were unthinkable. He touched his forehead to Bertie’s cheek, let his senses wrap around his lover’s presence. Pain. Everywhere, pain. It crescendoed. Bertie cried out, and the Monral drew a harsh, gasping breath. It was too much, and he broke the contact to straighten. A chair touched the back of his legs; he dropped heavily onto it. Bertie had to live. He had to. If he would not take the blessing, then the Monral would do what he could do, even give every last bit of his own strength to save him. He could live with prolonged exhaustion. He was unsure if he could live without Bertie. Not anymore.
Bertie writhed. “I don’t want to die alone,” he rasped. “I don’t—” The last word broke off into another scream.
The Monral’s vision glazed. “You are not alone, my love,” he said, when the scream subsided into choking sobs. “And you will not die. Not while I am here.”
Bertie sighed, and his emotional landscape fell into a disorganized chaos of shallow unconsciousness. His body spasmed and twitched. Around him, the apothecaries, nurses, and aides moved rapidly about their varied tasks, but even unconscious, the pain hardly dulled, radiating from Bertie like heat from a fire. The Monral sagged in the chair, exhaustion fogging his thoughts. He had poured almost everything he had into Bertie. It was still not enough.
“You will not die while I am here,” he repeated, and ignored caution to pull what he still could through his ruling bond, pushing that through his fingers.
He tried to find more. There was nothing left. He would have to wait for the energy available to him through his ruling bond to replenish itself, but he was out of time. Bertie was out of time. Already his glow began to dim again. Tears welled up and spilled down the Monral’s cheeks. He was going to lose him. He was going to lose Bertie.
No. He gathered his remaining strength. If giving it left him unfit to rule, so be it, so long as it kept Bertie alive. If it was not enough—
He took a breath, facing the reality before him. If it was not enough, then Albert St. John Rembrandt, the Duke of New Norfolk’s unwanted youngest son, would walk into the dark surrounded by the love of Monralar.
“I am yours, my love,” the Monral whispered. “I will always be yours.”
He took a deep breath, gathering himself.
A feeling of being watched stole over him, and with it, a sense of Parania’s beloved. He paused. Laura was awake and listening, then. Or she was traveling about while her body slept. Why was she here?
Was it simply to offer comfort when Bertie—if Bertie—when—his thoughts stuttered to a halt. More tears spilled.
Then something touched the very core of his heart and soul, refreshing and replenishing, and suddenly he was alert. Energy poured in from his ruling bond as if he had yet given nothing at all. Startled hope flooded him. He drew another deep breath and directed the energy into Bertie. The dimming stopped.
From across the stronghold, he felt the smile on Laura’s face.
“He is out of immediate danger,” she said. “We will do all we can to repair the damage to his body, high one, but it is extensive, and he will require many tens of days to fully recover. He could not have survived without the strength you lent him.”
Its work done, his connection to the beloved of Parania guttered like a candle flame and went out, leaving his chest aching but his body thrumming with energy. Mother of All, he thought. What power Laura had. And how much longer could her Paran hide the fact of it from those who would use or destroy her?
The Monral turned back to Bertie, whose eyes had slitted open. The whites were entirely stained red with blood. “Good morning,” he told him gently, in English.
Bertie managed a faint smile and said, in a hoarse whisper, “You sure know how to show a man a good time.”
She is a member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association (SFWA), spent 10 years raising sheep in Broome County, New York, and has been declared capable of learning Yup’ik.
Christie now lives in Rochester, NY, where she and her mathematician husband serve as full-time staff to two parlor panthers known to humans as Banichi the Assassin and Miss Myrtle the Hurricane Cat. (Their true names remain a mystery). When she’s not writing, she writes about writing on her blog, her personal Facebook page, where she welcomes comments and friend requests, and her Facebook Author Page.
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