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Angel With a Ray Gun

By Deborah Kinnard

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Chapter 1
The master computer control went dead in his hand, but it didn’t matter anymore. Newton’s first law of motion ensured that the starship Bright Lance would remain on its present course indefinitely. Jake Starborn dropped the control onto the console and returned his attention to kissing the beautiful Marya. A celebration kiss was in order, and he intended to take his time about it, too.
Jake looked up from the interested blonde Warrior in his arms. “Uh-uh, Matt. No, no, no. Don’t you know me better than this by now? I’m a fighter, not a lover! I need to stay focused on the next adventure!”
Pastor Matt Greenlee sat back in his leather desk chair and rubbed at his eyes. He glanced at the office clock and groaned. The late hour explained Jake’s coming off the page and scolding. When Matt got this stupid with exhaustion, his characters usually began to talk back. And Jake was right on the money. The ending of Starborn’s Journey just would not come, probably due to fatigue.
Or the muse had deserted him at last.
He rose and stretched. The darkened windows of the office reflected a tall man lifting long arms over his head, his stubble-darkened jaw dropping in a bone-cracking yawn. He noted his tousled hair and exhausted eyes. Eleven-thirty. He should be home decompressing, praying and tweaking his sermon for tomorrow. Eight o’clock service would arrive all too quickly, and it wouldn’t do if he should show up less than one hundred percent alert and ready to preach.
He groaned again. Deadline and sermons could prove mutually exclusive when a guy tried to do both well. Maybe he should call Dr. Hale?
“Right,” he said to the silent office. “And tell him what? That I’m having trouble maintaining my double life?” A nutty idea for sure. Handling both a ministry and a secret writing career could drive anyone bonkers. He could imagine his mentor’s reaction to such news. A writer of science fiction preaching the gospel, or a pastor writing such tripe? Hmmpf! No way could they mix. No way should they.
Matt figured God could call a guy to more than one task.
Likely the rest of his congregation would fall right in line with the retired senior pastor’s thinking. Dr. Jonathan Hale was nothing if not a straight-arrow. Okay, maybe his mentor was a bit mundane for a science fiction writer to admire. But Matt aspired to be that sort of minister, the kind a congregation pointed to with pride. He counted it a privilege to lead a church with such a great bunch of folks. Sure, a hard case here and there, but what group didn’t have its share? On the whole they were passionate in the faith, steadfast in attendance.
Matt couldn’t envision any of them picking up a Morgan Grimaldi title.
If one of them made the connection between him, Matt Greenlee, recently promoted from assistant to senior pastor of New Hope Church, and Morgan Grimaldi, science fiction author, Heaven help him.
His two lives were quite separate and needed to stay that way. Starborn’s Journey would be finished and turned in on time. In the six years he’d lived a dual life, he’d proved time and again that he was more than capable of meeting deadlines—be they science fiction or sermon.
Matt saved his novel on the hard drive, then shut down his computer and clicked off the lights. Patting the pockets of his leather jacket reassured him that the three-by-five sermon note cards remained safely tucked away. He whistled as he left the building for home, feeling cranked and ready for tomorrow.
The next thing Matt knew was waking with a bright dawn spilling through his bedroom blinds. He awoke disappointed, for Jake had not shown up in his dreams to suggest a boffo ending.
Time to refocus. Sunday had arrived in a clear late-September good mood. Matt ate breakfast on his deck in pale lemony sunlight and spent time in prayer. “Lord,” he asked, “I want this morning’s message to hit home big-time. In a special way, okay? Give me the words to reach these folks You’ve entrusted to me. And above all let me know when to stop talking.” He lifted the congregation’s needs, as many as his day planner listed, and left the house energized.
Matt unlocked New Hope Christian Church, enjoying a fair morning for the pulpit. He felt his spirits lifting at the chance to deliver a good, clear message. In the quiet of his office, he riffled through his sermon note cards and read the first line to himself. Isaiah 58:3-14 dealt with shaking off expected behaviors and breaking through to new habits of thought. He grinned. A sermon on breakthroughs sure fit his own situation. He felt qualified to preach it if not to produce one for himself. Didn’t he need a breakthrough to finish Starborn’s Journey?
Since he always gained balance while preaching, he expected the calm that Sunday service always lent. The smooth nature of the service buoyed him up further. Afterwards his duties ran to time for chat in the lobby, handshakes and quick comments and good fellowship.
“Pastor Matt!” A lady from the senior Bible study group fluttered up. “I’m sure you’ll want this prayer request. It’s my Aunt Elaine, remember I told you about her? Well, her bursitis is bothering her something terrible.”
Matt tried to concentrate on her aunt while a three-year-old nursery escapee did a flying tackle around his ankles. The toddler’s headlong ways reminded Matt of Jake. He got a kick out of scooping up the giggling boy and tickling him. “I’ll add her to the prayer list, Mrs. Andreasen.”
“Hey, buddy.” His friend Drew poked him in the shoulder. “We still gotta grab an hour to shoot baskets at your place. Thursday. Be there or we’ll break in.”
Sherry Kennedy wanted to firm up the bake sale. Christine Altobelli crowded in behind her. “You know, Pastor Matt, what about a chili cook-off to benefit the children’s ministries?”
He tried to concentrate, but Christine’s face kept morphing to that of a Warrior. Could his next book include Jake’s love interest?
Matt focused on each request, determined to give each member the time needed, despite distractions. He hoped none of the congregation would suspect that half his mind dwelt in a galaxy far, far away. He kept it together long enough to respond to everybody’s post-worship concerns.
Joe, the usher who always arrived first and left last, took an unconscionably long time to finish tidying. Matt waited in the narthex, offering a polite wave as the man left, and shut the front door. Seconds later, he sought his office and booted up the computer. Time to find that kicker of an ending.
Jake did not scold today.
An hour and a half later, Matt grinned in satisfaction and typed the end. Somehow, somewhere, he’d found a jewel of an ending. His stomach rumbled a demand for lunch so it was time for a break. He picked up the phone to dial his editor, but was surprised to hear his publisher’s voice instead. “Lloyd? Matt Greenlee. What are you doing in the office on Sunday? I wanted to leave Tom a voice mail.”
“Too much work, always too much work. I came in because it’s quiet, not the zoo Cairn always is on the weekdays. Today I can think.” Lloyd Daviess chortled. “What’s up?”
Matt chuckled, pleased to offer welcome news. “Starborn’s Journey is finished.”
“Boy, that’s the best news I’ve had all this week and next combined.”
Lloyd’s enthusiasm came clear as day over the line. Matt envisioned the publisher leaning back in that big green leather chair in his cushy downtown Chicago office.
“When should I drop the manuscript off to Tom?”
He heard a hesitation. “Well, you see, it’s like this. Tom has sort of, kind of, semi-retired. Right now, I believe he’s somewhere in Tibet. Or maybe Nepal.”
“Nepal!” Matt sat up straight in his desk chair. How dared his editor, trustworthy after three previous novels, go to Nepal?
“Possibly Tibet. The last postcard was from Katmandu, so I’m not certain sure.” His publisher made a noisy honk as he cleared his throat. “So I’m sending AJ Mercer. A real pip. This editing job will go a lot more smoothly than—”
“When will Tom get back from this, what is it, vacation?”
“Mid-life crisis. He claims he’s semi-retired, but I don’t buy that. He’s welcome back here once he gets through at whatever ashram he’s hunting for.”
“I wanted Tom. He and I work great together.” Matt slumped in disappointment while hearing an internal echo of his own voice soothing one of his flock. Now, we can’t always get what we want, can we?
“You and AJ will work great together too.” Lloyd’s voice worked up to a boom when he oversold a concept. Matt tensed, hearing the boom deepen. “Tom claims your writing is easy to edit, and AJ’s fast and sharp. One of the best. Used to be an agent but the agency folded. Wasn’t any fault of hers. The owners decided to cash out and retire.”
“Wait a minute.” Matt sat straight up once more. “Did you say hers?”
“Sure, what of it?”
“AJ’s a her.” He waited a beat for Lloyd to correct himself, but the other man didn’t. “Lloyd, this is Matt Greenlee. Remember me? I write science fiction.” A woman? Just say you’re yanking my chain, Lloyd. You are kidding, right?
“Now, Matt, don’t be antediluvian. This is the twenty-first century. Women do all sorts of stuff we don’t think they can handle.” Lloyd chuckled at his own wit, but Matt could hear his voice firming up for the boom. “AJ—”
“Assign someone else.”
“Can’t. She’s in St. Louis with another client. Driving up tomorrow. Already has your office address and your real name.”
“Lloyd.” Matt drew a long, deep breath to steady himself. “I know your house insists on the editor and the author meeting, but it’s an outdated practice. This once, let me mail the manuscript in. E-mail it. Anything else.”
“Now, Matt, you know better. Other publishers do it their way. Cairn does it our way, the right way. So we’re old-fashioned, sue me. I’ll go to my grave believing editing is best done face to face.”
“This is a special case. A minister needs to keep a good rep. That doesn’t include spending long hours working alone with a woman. If that sounds prissy, so be it.”
“That’s unfair. AJ is—”
He interrupted. “I’m sure she’s everything a writer could want in an editor. But please, Lloyd, please tell me she’s over sixty and built like a refrigerator.”
His publisher’s bark of laughter didn’t calm him any. “AJ is just AJ. What, you worried about that ol’ chemistry taking over? If it does, high time, I’d say! Aren’t you pushing thirty, and no hen in your coop?”
“Thirty next May and still single.”
Lloyd’s voice dropped a decibel from booming banter. “You can have all your chats in restaurants, if the no-privacy thing bothers you. Relax. You’re too uptight. You and AJ will get along fine. If she doesn’t, well, we’ll just have to re-evaluate.”
“Meaning what I think you mean? Great.” Matt felt his stomach drop another inch. The editing portion of the process had always been fun and a no-brainer, since his novels never needed much in the way of tweaking before acceptance. Now he envisioned a struggle to explain every allusion, every concept. “Assign someone who reads SF. Anyone else. Sure, some women read SF, but they like fantasy, not hard stuff like mine. I’ve never even gotten a letter from a lady reader, so I don’t think my stuff is real hot with them. Guys get it. A man can understand science fiction better.”
Lloyd emitted his barking laugh. “She’s read all your other books. She’s up to speed on this, trust me.”
“Just my other books?” he asked. “Does she read C.S. Lewis? David Brin? What about Lois McMaster Bujold or André Norton? Zenna Henderson? At least tell me she’s a lifelong SF fan, okay?” Silence. Matt prepared to dig in his heels. Though he rarely had to negotiate, it didn’t mean he lacked the skill. “I’m asking you. Call her, tell her this is a no-go.”
“Can’t.”
“She has a cell phone, right?” He could feel his face getting hot, a sure sign of frustration.
“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m not doing it. How can I assign her to work with the fabulous Morgan Grimaldi, author of the Starborn Trilogy, then yank her off it with no explanation? You already know that trusting your abilities is half the battle in this game. A sharp kid like her deserves a chance at a high-profile project.”
“Kid?”
“Well, anyone under forty seems like a kid to me.” Lloyd’s chuckle seemed forced.
“How much under?” Matt’s face got hotter.
“Twenty-six. But—”
He winced, envisioning the quagmire this editor could become. No; worse than a quagmire, quicksand. He knew the danger. Single pastor and fair lady? The congregation would be buzzing, and no happy outcome. She would do her job and move on, leaving Matthew Allen Greenlee’s rep in a shambles. Not that he foresaw another outcome. If anything he considered himself less of a catch now than in his younger years. His sister Melinda claimed if his head were less occupied with the Summa Galaxy, he might, might eventually become good husband material.
For now, forget it.
Morgan Grimaldi would take a female editor, even one of the twenty-six year old persuasion, in stride. Matt Greenlee couldn’t handle that kind of risk.
The phone still emitted Lloyd’s boom-box voice. Matt realized he’d tuned out his publisher’s commentary in order to contemplate the disaster a woman could become.
“Give AJ a chance, is all I’m sayin’. If you and she are poor chemistry, well, there are plenty of other publishers to work for. Editors are out there. We want more Starborn books, as many as you got in you. If it’s not working, give me a call.” Lloyd let the threat linger in the air for a moment.
It took Matt no longer than that moment to decide. “No. We can do business. I do have one condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“AJ keeps her job, whether she and I click or not. Otherwise it’s not fair. If it turns out she doesn’t understand hard SF, and you stick her with a writer like me, you can’t blame her if you don’t like the outcome.”
Though his publisher hedged, Matt had him. After a few more minutes with the volume cranked high, he got Lloyd to yes. He set the phone back in its cradle and dug two fingertips into his eyes. He spared an unkind thought for Tom on his Himalayan mountaintop, then winced and asked forgiveness.
He’d have to pray about his bad attitude toward his new editor. In only two days, the same AJ Mercer would hold his writing future in her dainty hands.
Matt dropped his head into his palms.
* * *
The appointment was set for Tuesday at three. Matt found many ways to keep busy, gulping analgesics to keep a pounding tension headache at bay. Tuesday morning he found respite in repainting the teenagers’ meeting room with some of the other guys. Tuesday afternoon crept by more slowly than college chemistry lab. The clock hands didn’t crawl toward three, they oozed. Matt prayed she’d be late, then chastised himself as a stupid kid. Best to get the ordeal over with.
At two minutes after the hour, he heard a car door open. Certain that it was unseemly for a minister to peek through the windows, he put his eye to the open casement anyway. She put one leg out the car door. A slender, dainty leg, encased in black to the toe of the chunky, stylish shoe. Then the rest of her emerged, a sight that made Matt’s jaw drop.
She was built like original sin.
He gaped. The female, presumably AJ Mercer, put both hands behind a swan-like neck and took her time stretching the kinks out. With her short black skirt she wore an amber turtleneck, the sort of shirt nobody with a spare pound could manage. Her height was below average, though perfect proportions made those dancer’s legs appear longer than they could possibly be. Her hair was worn short, not long as he liked it on women. A sleek, trendy haircut for ebony-brown hair that shone like mink in the sun.
His mouth went dry with a sudden burst of interest. Now where on earth did that zip of awareness come from? “Relax,” he muttered, flexing tension out of his arms. “Twenty-nine, single, normal. People get attractions from time to time. Chill.”
The impossible editor grabbed a brown leather attaché and approached the church doors. Lloyd Daviess could bluster and boom until the Second Coming. Matt would not, could not court catastrophe like this. “Aw, c’mon, Greenlee,” he scolded himself. “Get real. You sound like a Dr. Seuss storybook.”
He glanced around. His office was its usual tidy self, courtesy of his faithful secretary Jeri and disposable dust rags. A few books, of course, piled on the flat surfaces, but nothing out of the ordinary for an SF writing preacher.
He prepared for this affront of an editor with the jazz dancer’s walk. Matt made sure his plaid shirt was tucked into his jeans all the way around. He scrubbed his front teeth with a frantic tongue, trying to recall if he’d eaten broccoli for lunch. He thrust both hands through his hair to finger-comb it, and fled his office. There wasn’t time for more.
Wrong again, Jake Starborn whispered just behind his left ear. It’s the Warrior’s duty to approve the female, not the other way around. “Shut up, Jake.” He forced himself to descend the stairs toward the parking lot.
His footsteps on the pavement didn’t make her glance his way, so he cleared his throat. “Hello.”
Her dark head snapped up. “This is a church.” She didn’t spit the word, not quite.
Matt feigned shock, glancing around at the big two-story sanctuary, the attached classroom and office wing, the day care center’s fenced play area. “You know, you’re right. Now when did they put this up? There was a perfectly good diner here a few years ago.” He grinned to show her he was kidding, watching as a rosy glow spread over a pale porcelain complexion. Did the woman never get out into the sunshine?
“Sorry. Of course it’s a church. I’m looking for Mor—Matt Greenlee.”
“You found him. Both of him are me.” He stuck out his hand. “And you would be AJ Mercer.”
She nodded. Her clasp was firm and yet feminine, her hand less than half the size of his. Peered at through an office window, AJ’s appearance was, well, interesting. Viewed up close, the correct term was ‘stunning.’
Hold on, Buster, said Jake, she’s too short. And don’t you prefer blondes? He ignored the pest’s worldview, which in Matt’s opinion walked way too close to sin. His path lay in battling the flesh, not wallowing in temptation. He’d keep this editor-thing strictly business. Right? He could stay focused on business if anyone could, no matter what enticing suggestions Jake whispered. “Come on in. The office coffee pot usually has something in it at this hour.”
She blinked. “I don’t drink coffee.”
“Then we’ll find something else.” He held the big wooden door of the main entrance for her, taking a surreptitious moment to admire the all-together way a dancer walked. In his office he scooted a chair to one side to indicate she should sit in it.
AJ sat, crossing those black-clad legs like an architect closing a precision drafting instrument. Matt poured himself coffee into his English pub pint mug and buzzed Jeri. “Do you suppose you could find us a cup of—” He looked at AJ.
“Herb tea,” she supplied.
“Herb tea? Yeah? Thanks.” He sat back for a long satisfactory sip.
She let a beat or two go by, sizing up the office and him simultaneously. “This church. You’re the priest, or whatever.”
“Pastor is what they call me. At least sometimes. Most of the congregation calls me Matt.” He explained the brevity of his service as senior pastor. “Dr. Hale moved on. Retired, in a way. He prefers to call it re-fired.” He chuckled at the jest, then caught her blank look. “Fired up for the mission field. He had a calling when younger, but he says he’s on fire all over again.”
“I see.” A huge fib, which showed. That blank look said she had no idea what he was talking about. His heart sank. Not only clueless about SF, but about ecclesiastic matters as well. Unchurched, no doubt. A heathen? A challenge?
Jeri opened the door, proffering a cup of liquid the color of six-week-old straw. AJ took it with a smile. Jeri’s open, round face split into her hundred-watt grin. “Thanks.”
“Never did figure out why we keep that around. How can you drink it?” he blurted.
She gestured toward his pint pot. “How can you drink that?” She set her cup down. “Now, Mr. Greenlee.”
“Matt.”
A stubborn little chin dipped a millimeter. “Matt. Tastes are the topic, since I’m here about Starborn’s Journey.”
“Lloyd advised me you’ll be editing it.” Incipient defeat tasted worse than that swamp fluid looked in her mug.
“That’s right. I just got the download Saturday night, so I’m not as familiar with the story as I will be in a few days. But if we work hard on it, I think we can have it in shape by—”
“It is in shape,” he interrupted.
No visible reaction. His reluctant interest notched up a level. In AJ Mercer he spotted a woman who could restrain her instinctive, knee-jerk responses. If he stayed focused, this might be more fun than working with old Tom. Instead of speaking, AJ took a deliberate sip of straw-water. “Like most first drafts, it needs tightening. Now, let’s talk about chapter one.”
He sat back in his big executive chair and tried to stay focused.
“Too bad we can’t start with names,” she began. “In chapter one I find about thirty areas for your attention. For instance, what sort of aliens are Pit Vugs? And the main character’s name, which unfortunately can’t be changed this far into the series—”
He pounced. “What’s wrong with his name?”
“Jake Starborn. Really.” She set her empty cup down on a corner of the desk. “This isn’t a wild-west cowboy romance, Mr., um, Matt. Jake sounds too macho. Anachronistic for the twenty-third century.”
“As you say, it’s too late to change his name now.”
But she had the bit in her teeth. AJ Mercer paced her comments like a good sermon. In no hurry, she did not let her words bunch up. She didn’t veer off on tangents. Her discourse reminded him of a composer’s meticulous phrasing of a melody long known and never forgotten.
He narrowed his eyes to watch her straighten several dozen computer-printed manuscript pages. Matt decided to change his tactics. Didn’t Sun Tzu say that the best defense was a good offense? “Are you hungry?”
She appeared not to hear him, or if hearing, chose not to respond. “Of course, if I’d had the chance to work with you earlier, there might be some way to salvage—”
Again he interrupted. “Salvage? Miss Mercer—”
Her smile was almost gentle. “AJ.”
“Touché.” Matt leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in a work with me here gesture. “AJ, this is shaping up to be a prolonged discussion. I usually eat late, but I’m willing to make an exception. Let’s find somewhere for supper and talk some more.”
Before Jeri figures out there’s something out of the ordinary going on in here. A window with mini-blinds separated Matt’s office from the reception area, an amenity Dr. Hale insisted on. The perfect compromise between private and improper.
He gave her a smile he hoped was humble. “What’s clear from your comments, all very apropos, by the way, is that you need to get to know my buffing and polishing process.”
Those wide-open eyes didn’t even blink. Increasing discomfort made him wonder if she understood his one-up position in this negotiation. If Cairn Publishing decided against Starborn’s Journey, several other eager publishers came to mind. He didn’t need AJ, she needed him. He felt sort of sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy, editing a bestselling author in a genre so unfamiliar to her. Nobody should be plunged into such a quicksand. Obviously, she needed time to prove she had the first clue about science fiction.
“Buffing and polishing is a good place to start.” She pulled forth a sheaf of papers from her attaché. “Now, my process is this. I read. I write comments with a big red pen. I give the manuscript back. You revise.” Another smile curved sweet, unpolished lips. An almost unearthly calm in her expression. “That’s my editing process in a nutshell.” She leaned forward, bringing him a whiff of some clean, enticing fragrance. “And I have to eat eventually, ‘cause I’m hungry.” Autumn-hazel eyes sparkled, making him wonder uneasily if she was laughing at him. That couldn’t be a hint of amusement. “A working dinner, of course. Time is short. Then, we can discuss buffing and polishing.”
Matt tore his gaze from her grin and picked up the papers on the desk. He forced his fist not to clench around them.
Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways. She needs a chance. Could this be God’s gentle intervention with an attitude adjustment? What if I’m getting a big ego here? What if I’ve gotten more into this bestselling-author thing than I should have? Work with this dancing girl, maybe get a whole new perspective?
Page one had been murdered, hashed with red from sentence one to the bottom. “I’ll pick you up,” he said, numb, “at six.” Unless, of course, there was a gravel pit into which she might stumble before then.
“Fine,” she said with another smile. “Here’s my card, and where I’m staying.”
He fingered her business card, watching her shove papers back into the attaché. This was his novel, his church, his turf. Strictly business. Strictly, strictly business. So how come she looked in total control and he felt like he’d taken a cannonball in the gut? “Until six, then.” Stupefied, he watched black-clad legs dance out of his office.
He thrust his fists in his pockets, watching the rental car until its taillights vanished from sight.

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