Jackson Ford - The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind

Besides, I figure these things are like the long-ass credit lists in album liner notes. Nobody reads those things. Nobody has ever read those things. So if I fuck it up, nobody will know.

Here goes.

The first draft of this book was a disaster. Anna Jackson helped knock it into shape, with an assist from James Long and Bradley Englert. Without them, I never get a story. Also, they did things like remove the shotgun-toting unicorn that Jackson inserted here, when he couldn’t figure out how to have us escape the cops. I mean, I like unicorns, but you can’t just drop them in when you need an escape for your heroes. You know what I mean?

Also, big up to Ed Wilson, Jackson’s agent, who keeps J in vanilla ice cream and Celine Dion albums. Jackson once told me this story about Ed—he has a nifty pair of pants with a pattern of little dogs on them. He wears them out at publishing events, apparently.

(Wait a second. Ed’s English, and in the UK, “pants” are actually underwear, not trousers. Did I just accuse Jackson’s literary agent of having dog-patterned underwear? Fuck it, I’m running with it. Ed, you and your dog underwear are amazing.)

All of Jackson’s hilarious spelling mistakes and continuity errors were corrected by Hugh Davis, who did a really good job. Mostly. Because… OK, look, dude, seriously, correcting the word “dumpster” to “skip” so it “doesn’t confuse British audiences” is ridiculous. Like I give a shit! (I kid—thanks, man.)

Emily Courdelle and Steve Panton nailed the cover—I mean, look at it. Frame it. Put it on a billboard (no, seriously, put it on a billboard, somebody, we need the sales).

This book was published by Orbit, and some pretty rad human beings work there. Way more talented than Jackson. Tim Holman, Joanna Kramer, Madeleine Hall and the tireless Ellen Wright all deserve special mention. Nazia Khatun deserves special special mention, because if I don’t give it to her she’ll kill both me and Jackson. She’s vicious , people.

In the process of writing this book, Jackson consulted a couple of accomplished geneticists: Prof. Marcia MacDonald, and Prof. Simon Warby. They gave him great information, and he proceeded to fuck it up beyond all recognition. He assures me that it was on purpose, for the story, but I just think he’s an idiot. Anyway, Marcia and Simon were a huge help, and none of the many, many errors in this book are their fault.

The incredible Alisha Grauso fact-checked Jackson’s Los Angeles. She knows way more than he does. I’m not even sure Jackson could find LA on a map.

Perry Lo helped out with information on fibre networks and IT systems. He also made the mistake of teaching Jackson to play mahjong, with the result that J spent all of his book advance money in a gambling hall somewhere. Perry’s a great teacher but J’s a shitty student.

And big up to Nicole Simpson, George Kelly, Chris Ellis, Dane Taylor, Rayne Taylor, Ida Horwitz, Ryan Beyer, Werner Schutz, Taryn Arentsen Schutz and Kristine Kalnina. They read the early drafts, and gave some great feedback. Jackson ignored most of it, because of course he did.

Pretty sure I forgot some people. Whatever. I’m not even getting paid for this. I’m out.

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Jackson Ford has written sixteen bestselling novels, all of which have been translated into multiple languages. Apparently this made him think he could write a book about Los Angeles, despite the fact that he has never been there, and had to rely on other people to fill in the gaps. Then again, what did you expect from a guy who thinks Celine Dion actually made good music, and genuinely enjoys plain vanilla ice cream? He is the creator of the Frost Files, and the character of Teagan Frost—who, by the way, absolutely did not write this bio, and anybody who says she did is a liar.

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Dazzling space battles, intergalactic politics, and rogue AI collide in Velocity Weapon , the first book in this epic space opera by award-winning author Megan O’Keefe.

Sanda and Biran Greeve were siblings destined for greatness. A high-flying sergeant, Sanda has the skills to take down any enemy combatant. Biran is a savvy politician who aims to use his new political position to prevent conflict from escalating to total destruction.

However, on a routine maneuver, Sanda loses consciousness when her gunship is blown out of the sky. Instead of finding herself in friendly hands, she awakens 230 years later on a deserted enemy warship controlled by an AI who calls himself Bero. The war is lost. The star system is dead. Ada Prime and its rival Icarion have wiped each other from the universe.

Now, separated by time and space, Sanda and Biran must fight to put things right.

The first thing Sanda did after being resuscitated was vomit all over herself. The second thing she did was to vomit all over again. Her body shook, trembling with the remembered deceleration of her gunship breaking apart around her, stomach roiling as the preservation foam had encased her, shoved itself down her throat and nose and any other ready orifice. Her teeth jarred together, her fingers fumbled with temporary palsy against the foam stuck to her face.

Dios, she hoped the shaking was temporary. They told you this kind of thing happened in training, that the trembling would subside and the “explosive evacuation” cease. But it was a whole hell of a lot different to be shaking yourself senseless while emptying every drop of liquid from your body than to be looking at a cartoonish diagram with friendly letters claiming Mild Gastrointestinal Discomfort .

It wasn’t foam covering her. She scrubbed, mind numb from coldsleep, struggling to figure out what encased her. It was slimy and goopy and—oh no. Sanda cracked a hesitant eyelid and peeked at her fingers. Thick, clear jelly with a slight bluish tinge coated her hands. The stuff was cold, making her trembling worse, and with a sinking gut she realized what it was. She’d joked about the stuff, in training with her fellow gunshippers. Snail snot. Gelatinous splooge. But its real name was MedAssist Incubatory NutriBath, and you only got dunked in it if you needed intensive care with a capital I .

“Fuck,” she tried to say, but her throat rasped on unfamiliar air. How long had she been in here? Sanda opened both eyes, ignoring the cold gel running into them. She lay in a white enameled cocoon, the lid removed to reveal a matching white ceiling inset with true-white bulbs. The brightness made her blink.

The NutriBath was draining, and now that her chest was exposed to air, the shaking redoubled. Gritting her teeth against the spasms, she felt around the cocoon, searching for a handhold.