When a high-level alien investor dies on Earth, an inter-species sex-worker must find the real murderer to prevent the enslavement of humanity.
Harry Downs is a Kink: a highly-educated, painstakingly trained, diplomat who has sex with aliens for money. Or for secrets. Or scraps of technology. Or maybe just respect. After the invasion, humans have to take whatever they can get.
Harry has always thought he was working to save humanity. He even seems to be succeeding, until his latest client dies mid-climax. Now he’s got a bereaved bee-hive gunning for him, his boss’s alien sugar-daddy trying to frame his girlfriend, and a bunch of tentacled anthropologists panting to induct him into their space-harem. The death of the wealthy alien businessman is only part of a series of interlocking conspiracies that could end with humanity enslaved or extinct, and the only people with the know-how to carry out the investigation are also its chief suspects.
Harry is on the run, with nothing but his wits and his extensive training in interspecies seduction. He’ll need to work with an array of bickering partners – human and inhuman, romantic and otherwise – if he’s going to find his client’s killer and avert interstellar war. And even with his extensive and revolting experience in extraterrestrial empathy, it’s hard to relate to extraterrestrial land squid.
NEW FRONTIERS is an interspecies murder mystery about biology, love, and what makes someone a person.
STATUS: looking for publisher
“Look,” I say, “I can explain,” and the Ambassador’s tentacle catches me in the gut.
The Ambassador’s big, even for a male oonkh, and his primary manipulator is as thick as my leg. I’m trained to dodge angry aliens, but the appendage is too high and too damn big. My arms slip over the bristly girth of the thing before it flexes and whips me into the padded wall.
When I can breathe again, I’m on my back and my client is on top of me. The oonkh Ambassador straddles me between his four, soup-plate-sized feet, a shaggy pyramid of rage and the oonkh equivalent of testosterone, frothing at the equivalent of a mouth.
Columnar legs tremble and ears flap like Japanese fans. The Ambassador smells like bleach and citrus. “Lust and rage,” I say, “that’s good, right?”
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