Science fiction and mystery author John E. Stith recently released an engaging and lighthearted tale of intrigue with the novel, Disavowed, and he has been very generous to the Fanbase Press staff, as we are now able to share the below excerpt from the book!

Synopsis

The sole survivor of a botched mission overcomes terrible odds to reach home. And then… the real trouble starts.

Star Storm is sent to a remote planet to show massive force and keep a maverick government in line. Unfortunately, the ship attacks the wrong planet, one equipped with surprisingly powerful weaponry.

Star Storm is destroyed, and the only survivors are Medical Office Nick Sparrow and his AI, Natalie. When Nick reaches the planetary surface in an escape pod, he’s the alien invader. Nick struggles to survive, managing to befriend two dog-life aliens who run afoul of their own government.

Nick could sure use some help, but none arrives. People at home hope Nick will never be heard from again.

But they didn’t know Nick.

Creative Team 
Writer: John E. Stith

We hope that you will enjoy the below preview, and be sure to pick up your copy today!

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The final voyage of Star Storm was a cocktail of the mundane with a chaser of the terrifying.


As on most final voyages, the crew didn’t have that vital information going in. I wasn’t rearranging deck chairs or listening to a band playing “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Instead, I was saving the life of Jackson Zo. 


Jackson Zo’s frog-march to the nearest airlock was triggered by a debt smaller than an hour’s pay and a temper hotter than a fusion spark. And the cheating, of course.
 It could have been someone else’s problem, but I was on duty, on the same deck, and I outranked the members of the launch party and their intended launchee. If the target had been Ensign Krotton, I would have been sorely tempted to suffer a temporary hearing loss until the procession moved on past. On the wrong day, I might even have punched the “Evacuate” button for them. Just kidding, as far as you know. 


Star Storm, home to almost two hundred oxygen breathers, had been stationed in this backwater sector for almost twelve standard days, jumping a few light-years at a time on various pseudo-random headings that would still let us maintain contact with home base. My gut told me that was less about being at the ready if trouble surfaced where we least expected it than justifying the annual operating budget. That budget paid for ample leave in interesting spots, all the fancy blue uniforms I could use, and left a sliver for retirement, so it wasn’t bad. The Navy suited my need for travel, even if some of the official destinations seemed pointless.


I’m Nick Sparrow, ship’s doctor, currently a lieutenant serving as Medical Officer on Star Storm, an aging but sturdy Interloper-class starship in the Web of Worlds Navy. The squealing down on C deck was coming from Petty Officer Third Class Jackson Zo as he lurched along the starboard passageway ahead of none other than Sandy and Randy, each one forcing one of Jackson’s arms behind him, each arm twisted and elevated. Jackson sounded like a pig that had a sudden insight into how bacon was made.


Sandy Rose and Randy Quan were both Petty Officers, First Class. Off-duty, they were usually found together. Randy’s reputation for moving on every female he encountered had been with him so long, that only the ship’s paymaster knew whether Randy was his first name or his permanent state. I could have asked Natalie, my AI, but I really didn’t care. Sandy seemed to be one of the few women exempt from the pattern, perhaps because she could pound Randy’s bones into dust if she got irritated enough. She looked to be half that angry most of the time, but angry at the world, not at Randy. Humans, including me, accounted for only thirty percent of the crew, but were responsible for eighty percent of the incident reports. Go, team.

None of this party seemed to have taken a detox pill, which made it easier for me.


They were traveling outward from the living and working area of the ship, moving through the outer layer of equipment stores, weaponry, docking bays, and the other areas of the ship that, if hit, wouldn’t immediately blast personnel into space like a busted beehive.


Luckily for them, and most luckily for Jackson, I caught up with the trio just as they neared airlock C-2.


Jackson took another faltering step. “OK, OK, OK. Point made.” Blood slowly dripped from Jackson’s nose.


Sandy lifted her arm higher, bending Jackson farther over. “This ain’t about making points, you lead-head. You cheated us.” Her voice was so slurred that if she tried to call up directions to the airlock, she could have gotten instructions on how to cut a Mohawk. And that would have just made her angrier; Sandy kept her brown head shaved. She worked out, a lot, and when off duty wore muscle shirts to the maximum extent allowed by the regs.


I cleared my throat behind them and said into the abrupt silence, “Sure is a nice night for a walk. Where are you three off to?”


Randy had enough presence of mind to use “sir” in his reply, but not enough to immediately let go of Jackson. At least they stopped where they were. “The airlock. Sir.” His tone suggested the answer was obvious, as though I had asked him if he was toilet trained. Sandy and Randy both had a dusting of blue twank particles on their upper lips. The stuff is like glitter; it can turn up months after the party, and where you least expect it.


I took that in for a second. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Sandy blinked hard at me. Twank doesn’t go hand in hand with higher reasoning.
 Randy made a guess at it. “Because we’re making too much noise?” Randy, Randy, Randy, I thought.

I sighed and made a point of looking around. Navy-standard gray coated most of the starboard passageway except for the overhead color-coded pipes, conduits, and low-gee handholds. The bottom third of the bulkheads was red to indicate starboard, interrupted at intervals by large “C’s” for C Deck. In general, most Navy starships looked like other starships, in the way motel rooms all conformed to certain low-medium standards. The soft whoosh of circulating air blended with Jackson’s labored breathing. It looked like he was going to need a change of pants. The path behind the trio looked like the trail of a bloody slug.

“You folks are making a mess of the floor,” I observed calmly. Twank can sometimes heighten reflexes, but it interferes with lucidity and decision-making.
Sandy actually looked proud for a moment as she said, “Don’t you worry, sir. We can clean up when we’re finished.”


“Finished doing what, exactly?”


Randy was more candid than was good for him. “We’re going to toss this flounder out the airlock.”


“You know,” I said slowly, so they could absorb the words. “I’m almost certain there’s a regulation against that.”


“We’ll clean up in the airlock, too,” Sandy said helpfully.
 I rubbed my forehead.

“No one’s going out the airlock tonight,” I said.


“But he cheated us out of twenty credits,” Randy said. “Sir.”


“Did not,” Jackson said.


“How did he do that?”


“Ah, well, we’re not exactly certain.” Sandy forgot the “sir.”


“And your evidence is?” 


“Well,” Randy said slowly. “He was winning.”


“Yeah,” Sandy chimed in enthusiastically. “He never wins.”


“Oh, well, in that case. Carry on.”


“Thank you, sir,” Sandy lifted her arm a bit higher, preparing to depart.


“Ow, ow, ow!” came from Jackson.


“No, Petty Officer, that was what we call sarcasm.”


Randy seemed to be catching on. “So, you’re saying—”


“I’m saying we’re not finished here.”


The exchange was making Jackson bolder. “Sir, could you ask them to lower my arms? This hurts.”


Sandy’s response was to lift higher.
 “Ow, ow, ow!” Jackson cried again.
 “Lower his arms. Now!”
 Sandy and Randy both complied, but just to the smallest extent of the command.

Jackson’s wrists both dropped about the length of a finger.


“That’s much better,” Jackson said and rolled his eyes.


The wrists went back up. “Ow, ow, ow!”


Once Jackson was quiet again, I asked, “Were you cheating?”

“Was I cheating? Of course not. Sir.”


Jackson’s voice was strained from the pain. Repeating the question is a common sign of trying to buy time, time often used in preparation for a lie. And I knew Jackson. Two strikes.


Randy said, “Sir, we need to be on our way.”


“Not yet. Let’s go back to the break room first.”


“But, sir—”


“Now!”


The procession turned around.


“Ow, ow, ow!”


The break room was empty of people. The hour was late, and not that many of the crew wanted to be around Randy and Sandy when they were high. Large gaming screens lined three of the walls. They were all unneeded at the moment, so they were displaying the local star field. A half-dozen tables formed an irregular grid. To one side of the room was a table still showing scattered cards, and an overturned chair.
 I inspected several of the cards. They seemed to be typical, slightly worn permaplast. They felt like normal cards.
 I compressed one of the cards from the top edge to the bottom edge, then ran a thumbnail along the bottom edge.


“Ah ha!” Randy exclaimed. “We told you!”


The card had just shifted images. At first, it was a three of clubs. It counted upward through king, and when I dropped it back on the scarred green tabletop, it was a four of diamonds.


This was a pretty expensive deck, high enough quality to feel very much like ordinary cards. My father, whom I hadn’t seen in years, had a deck like this. But he could easily afford such expensive toys. It would take Jackson a lot of wins to pay off the cost.


“I’m going to have to confiscate this deck,” I said.


“No, sir!” Jackson said. “You can’t just take personal property.” Three strikes. 


Confirmation of ownership. “The Navy has certain expectations, Petty Officer Zo. Things like honesty and treating your fellow crewmembers fairly. If you violate those norms, there should be consequences.”

Jackson at least had the grace to look chagrined.


“OK. I’m finished here,” I said. “Go on about your business.”

“Really?” Sandy asked, just as Jackson said, “Hey!”


“No, not really.” I sighed. “You’re all headed to the brig.” I finished gathering up the cards and put the deck in my tunic pocket.


“That’s not right. You know he was cheating us.” Randy was still upset enough to forget the “sir.”


“Release him, and we’re headed to the brig.” I let ice creep into my voice.


Sandy had lowered her arm just a bit when Randy said, “Ain’t gonna happen.” His voice was still slurred, and his judgment was still impaired by the twank. He dropped Jackson’s arm and came at me, fast.


I raised my left fist to get his attention as I kept my gaze locked on his. The twank was my friend. Randy moved fast, but he was wary of my fist and kept his gaze aimed too high. As he came at me, I thrust my right hand forward, fingers stiffly bunched into a spike, and I hit him right in the solar plexus. Fighting is more complicated when you don’t want to do any permanent injury.


Instantly, he was down on one knee, totally unable to breathe. The air was gone from his lungs, and for a moment, the muscles would not obey commands to draw in more oxygen. His diaphragm was temporarily in spasm. Plus, there was the pain.


My foot on the small of his back forced him flat on his stomach. I whipped off my belt, pulled his right wrist back to the small of his back, and then added the left wrist. The belt wrapped around the wrists and I pulled the fastener tight. Game over.


Sudden death overtime. Sandy didn’t like me hurting her twank buddy. As she rushed me, I put my elbow into her temple, and she went down. Jostling the brain sideways is usually good for a blackout or, at the very least, several seconds of compliance. As a doctor, I was supposed to do no harm, but what are you gonna do? Jackson was massaging his arms and shoulders, no threat to me, so I took Randy’s belt and used it to secure Sandy’s wrists behind her. She was out cold. I made sure her airway was clear, as disgusting as that was.

I stood, blocking the doorway in case anyone had thoughts about departing. I said, “Natalie, call the Bridge.”
Got it, she replied. You want maintenance to do a clean-up as well? “Sure.”

Maybe two seconds passed. “Bridge.” The new voice in my ear was Nan Cotter, Second Officer. She was a few years older than me, and headed up the ladder even faster. I think she hailed from Granary, an enormous agricultural colony. I could picture her freckled, tan skin and reddish hair, short and smoothed in a shower-cap fashion. 
 “Lieutenant Sparrow here, Ma’am. I need three crew transported from the C Deck break room to the brig.”

“On the way.”
 The call ended. From a bulkhead-mounted medikit, I retrieved three detox ampoules and broke one each in Randy, Sandy, and Jackson’s faces. By the time the military police showed up, Sandy was awake, and all three seemed more or less clear-headed.
 With the twank mostly neutralized, only Randy was apologetic. As an MP was giving him a more official wrist restraint, he said, with his wrinkled brow showing his pain, 
 “Lieutenant Sparrow, sir, I’m awful sorry. I wasn’t myself.”


“Thank you.”


“Do you think the captain will discharge us?”
 I’d seen Randy a bit unruly, maybe bordering on loud and obnoxious, but never like this. 


“First offense, right?”


“Yes, sir!”


To Natalie I subvocalized, Is that right?


Yes, she said. First offense, as far as we know.


“The skipper is pretty fair. Show him you’re sorry, get ready for some punishment details, be patient, and you should be OK.”

“Thank you, sir!” Randy looked uncomfortable with his hands bound behind him, and he winced, probably from residual pain in his abdominals.


“You might apologize to Jackson, too. Cheating isn’t Navy-like, but there’s got to be some punishment that falls short of, well, that.” Randy nodded.

I added, “You can get a patch, you know. If you take twank, you throw up. A lot. It might be what you need to stop.”


Randy looked thoughtful, then nodded. “I love the Navy, sir. I’ll do that. And—” he looked at his feet, then back up “—thanks for not being a total black hole about it, sir. I know how wrong I was.” 


I leaned forward and squeezed his shoulder. I would have shaken his hand, but that wasn’t possible at the moment.


One of the MPs, a woman named Lona Zar, nudged Randy gently into motion. She had startlingly blue eyes, and she gave me a quick, warm smile before she and the others departed. 


Life has a way of balancing things out. I was feeling encouraged that maybe this had made an impression on Randy, but, as the three were led away, Sandy shot me a vicious look, as though I had just stolen some food from her dish.


I walked over and righted the downed chair. 


Maybe it would work out for Randy. When he wasn’t socializing, he was actually pretty smart and hard-working. He was just one of those guys who took “work hard, play even harder” too far.


So, it was possible that he would get his act together. On the other hand, sometimes when one door closes, a trapdoor opens.


At the time, I was thinking more about Randy than myself.