In space no one can hear you slay.
Captain Ruby Harlow and her father get a killer deal on a pre-owned spaceship with a dark history. Desperate to leave a dying earth for the final frontier, Ruby and her wife overlook the ship's lousy attitude and nasty bat infestation. But then a bloody ghost starts tormenting their only fembot and the harassment goes unreported. Despite all these problems, the captain leads a glorious launch.
Later, with the entire crew in cryo, the haunted spaceship strays off course, then suddenly wakes everyone. Unable to return to hypersleep, Ruby and her crew discover they are years away from anything other than a mysterious comet.
Soon, the endless isolation of deep space starts wearing on Ruby’s father. After a severe seizure, Bob becomes increasingly hostile and paranoid. Before long, he starts believing the ship’s doctor is Dracula. He might be right, but proving it will drive him to the brink of madness.
Are they really trapped in space with vampires?
Was Bob chosen to be the slayer?
Or will he become the real monster?
In space no one can hear you slay.
Captain Ruby Harlow and her father get a killer deal on a pre-owned spaceship with a dark history. Desperate to leave a dying earth for the final frontier, Ruby and her wife overlook the ship's lousy attitude and nasty bat infestation. But then a bloody ghost starts tormenting their only fembot and the harassment goes unreported. Despite all these problems, the captain leads a glorious launch.
Later, with the entire crew in cryo, the haunted spaceship strays off course, then suddenly wakes everyone. Unable to return to hypersleep, Ruby and her crew discover they are years away from anything other than a mysterious comet.
Soon, the endless isolation of deep space starts wearing on Ruby’s father. After a severe seizure, Bob becomes increasingly hostile and paranoid. Before long, he starts believing the ship’s doctor is Dracula. He might be right, but proving it will drive him to the brink of madness.
Are they really trapped in space with vampires?
Was Bob chosen to be the slayer?
Or will he become the real monster?
Ruby Harlow thought: Shady little weasel.
Randall Pickle stood five-eight on his tippy toes and moved with a sidestepping waddle reserved for portly fellas. The sleazy salesman removed his gray fedora to wipe sweat from his brow, revealing his slicked-back receding hairline. He wore a red tie with a red carnation tucked into the lapel of his plaid suit jacket. Good thing too, or Ruby might’ve confused him with a thrift store sofa.
His Burt Reynolds mustache screamed to anyone with eyes: I use Just for Men comb-in color.
But to the paying customer, it also whispered: You can’t trust me because I’m a big, fat liar.
“So—” Pickle plopped into his squeaky chair and segued from his canned sales pitch into closing the deal. “Will you be trading in your current spaceship today?”
“No trade,” Ruby replied. “I’m currently, uh, between ships.”
“That’s all right. No problem. Please, have a seat. Were you planning to pay with stablecoin or looking to finance Gloria today?”
“I’m sorry, who?” As Ruby sat, she admitted that she probably couldn’t have liked anyone on that side of the desk, considering the circumstances.
“Gloria.” He pointed out the window at the largest clunker on the sparse lot. “That’s the name of the deep-space beauty you fell in love with out there.”
“Oh, that Gloria.” Ruby plastered on a phony PR smile. “I’ll need financing.”
“Great, I’ll just work up some special discounts that will be perfect for you.” Pickle slid his transparent tablet into a rickety desk mount, then swiped the screen a few times. Finally, the device projected a blue keyboard onto his desk blotter, and then his plump fingers got busy typing away on the dingy paper. “Okay, Ruby, just a few quick questions to get you qualified.”
She straightened the brass nameplate on the edge of his desk and said, “Okay, Randy, fire away.”
“Birthday?”
“June 10, 1985.”
“Oh, wow, so that makes you—” He scribbled on the corner of the desk pad as he did the math. “—a hundred and four years old.”
“It’s 2081, and I’m ninety-six.” She leaned over his desk, snatched the cheap blue pen from his hand, and corrected his subtraction mistake while also writing upside down. “You forgot to borrow the ones.”
He chortled while ogling her up and down. “Well, you look great for your age.”
Ruby thought: Ah, shady and a sleazeball.
Pickle asked, “Employer name?”
“I’m self-employed.”
“That’s all right. No problem. No problem at all. What do you do, Ruby?”
“I’m a captain. Speculative space exploration.”
Pickle raised a bushy eyebrow with so many wild curly grays that they made her want to introduce the man to a pair of tweezers.
“Oh, really?” he asked, “Experienced?”
“Yes, of course, over ten years.”
“In hypersleep?”
“No. Active duty. In command.”
“Space Force?”
“Yes.”
“Well, ma’am,” he said as he saluted sloppily, “thank you for your service.”
“Pfft, thanks, but I don’t need to be thanked. What I need is to get back to work.”
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you a civilian now?” He gestured up at the water-stained ceiling tiles above his head. “What went wrong out there?”
“Is that question part of the loan application?”
“Well, no. No, it isn’t.”
“Then I decline to answer.”
“Okay, okay, just curious.” He ducked behind his transparent tablet. “Do you have any collateral, like a house?”
“Uh.” She pointed with her thumb at the sun-faded red Volkswagen parked outside. “I’ve got a car.”
“Oh my, well, I hate to break it to you, Captain Harlow, but you may need a co-signer.”
She smirked. “At my age?”
Pickle shrugged.
“Well, then.” Ruby looked out the window at the man kicking the landing gear under Gloria. “Lucky for me, I brought my father along.”
But Ruby had hoped she wouldn’t need Bob. Here it was, the ‘80s, and still, a woman couldn’t buy a damn break. She swallowed the anger bubbling up inside and somehow held her tongue. Yes, spaceship shopping had taken an unfortunate, unexpected turn. But she had more serious problems than this one Randy Pickle.
The reason Ruby had no house: a wildfire had burned their home to the ground over a month ago. Aside from what clothing and mementos they’d managed to pack in under an hour, the Stateline fire had taken everything. She wouldn’t even have the Jetta if they hadn’t used it to evacuate.
But the reason Ruby had no ship was nobody’s fucking business.
And her father, God love him, had a way of getting under people’s skin. But right now, she thought she could use that to her advantage while negotiating. After all, that was why she brought Bob along in the first place.
She leaned forward in the vinyl chair, reached behind her back, unclipped a walkie-talkie from the waistband of her jeans, and keyed the mic. “This guy Pickle says I need a co-signer, Dad.”
Bob galloped to the window and crammed his cheek against the dirty glass, nearly knocking his black horn-rimmed glasses off his face. Then, with wild blue eyes, he rapped on the window, beating out the familiar rhythm to “Shave and a Haircut.”
Ruby smiled back at him, keyed her radio, and knocked on Pickle’s desk to reply—two bits.
Their secret knock meant: I’m here for you.
Bob spoke into his two-way radio. “Roger that, Starlight, but I have concerns about the vessel.”
Her father had called her Starlight for as long as she could remember. The pet name always made her feel warm, safe, and loved. She’d missed that while Bob was on ice. And now that she had him back, she swore she’d never take her father for granted again.
But this was no time for sappy sentiments.
I have concerns about the vessel was their prearranged secret code, meaning, let’s turn the screws on this guy and close the damn deal.
Now was the time to play hardball.
She sprung out of her chair and said, “Grab your tablet, Randy. We’re going back out there.”
So, they did.
Pickle barreled around the corner just in time to catch Bob squatting behind Gloria. Her father carefully positioned his walkie-talkie on the pavement with the thick black antenna pointing upward, then sprung onto his feet again.
This puzzled Pickle.
Randy thought Mr. Harlow didn’t look a day over forty, but Ruby had just said she was ninety-six years old.
The salesman kept glancing back and forth between father and daughter. Bob had an enviable head of hair and no middle-age spread. And if not for her spiky salt-and-pepper pixie cut, Pickle would’ve placed Ruby in her mid-thirties. If Bob was her father, he should’ve been, well, he couldn’t do the math in his head, but older than his daughter. He felt a migraine coming on when he finally asked, “What’s with the antique radio?”
“Shh!” Ruby scolded him. “Don’t disturb the ritual.”
“Ritual? What ritual?”
Bob backed away from his handheld radio and combed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. The August sun glimmered off the grays hidden deep in his dark-brown curls. He shielded his eyeglasses with his hand and scanned the blue sky for who-knows-what. Then, smiling knowingly, he flashed a grin of yellowing teeth while reaching into his front shirt pocket for a fresh pack of Marlboros. Finally, he smacked the red flip-top box against the heel of his hand ten times.
Pickle asked, “Who smokes cigarettes anymore?”
She elbowed him. “Zip it, Pickle.”
“Bali mangti Motorola maa. Mukti degi Motorola maa,” Bob chanted while tugging the gold band through the cellophane wrapper, thumbing open the Marlboro lid, and tearing out the inner foil. “Swikar karo.”
Ruby replied through her walkie-talkie, “Dhoompapaan.”
After dropping the pack back into his shirt pocket, he crumpled up the plastic wrap and folded the shiny foil around it to make a tight wad. Then, like a humble worshipper, Bob knelt and laid the foil-wrapped trash before the radio. He placed both hands on the pavement, then touched his forehead to the ground.
“Nirty karo,” Ruby said solemnly.
Bob raised his head and smiled. “Om namah Motorola.”
Pickle sniggered nervously. “You’re kidding with that gibberish, right?”
Bob plucked the pack from his pocket, slid out a cigarette, and placed the filter between his lips. It dangled effortlessly from his favorite spot at the corner of his mouth. Then he stood and fished a green plastic lighter from his front trouser pocket. He flicked his Bic, sucked hard, and inhaled deeply.
Pickle objected, “So we’re waiting for him now?”
Bob suddenly spun around to face the fat man while plumes of white smoke billowed from his flaring nostrils.
As a little girl, Ruby thought her daddy looked like a fire-breathing dragon whenever he did that. Of course, she knew he’d planned to spew smoke as part of his crazy act. She had to stop herself from giggling because she loved the drama of it all.
Pickle? Not so much.
Bob started dancing in a circle around the walkie-talkie. Funky footwork. Wild arms. Head snaps. Closed eyes. Cigarette puffs and smoke rings.
But there was no music.
Then Bob started chanting in frenzied Hindi, “Motorola maa shakti de. Motorola maa shakti de. Motorola maa shakti de.”
Pickle gaped. “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”
“He’s getting in touch with his inner guide.”
“Look, lady, all I want is a co-signer.”
She crossed her arms and sternly said, “His signature. His decision. His process.”
“Let’s skip the song and dance.” Pickle waddled over and shoved the tablet in front of the man. “All I need is your signature. Right here. On this line. Just use your finger to sign.”
But Bob blew smoke in his face, then danced right past him.
“Come on, buddy.” Pickle waved the transparent tablet in the air. “I ain’t got all day.”
Bob declared, “We want to test-drive Gloria.”
Ruby applauded. “Great idea, Dad.”
“What? Wait, huh?” The salesman seemed genuinely confused. “That’s not possible.”
“You’re asking us to sign our lives away here.” Bob puffed casually on his cigarette. “We’ll be going into debt forever to buy this ship, so it’s only fair that we know what we’re getting into.”
“But this is a deep-space vessel. It ain’t like we can hop in and take it for a spin around the block.”
“My father has a valid point, though. We’re making a significant investment here.”
“This isn’t a spaceport,” Pickle complained. “It would take a massive booster rocket just to get this ship out of the atmosphere.”
“No test fly. No sale.” Ruby insisted as she spun away and marched toward her car. “Come on, Dad. We’re done here.”
Bob gathered up his trash and shoved it into his pocket. Then he snatched his walkie-talkie off the ground and eagerly followed his daughter.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Pickle called after them. “Don’t go.”
The two stopped, winked at each other, and turned back.
“I wanna deal, but we don’t even have a pilot.” The salesman became almost apologetic. “No offense, Captain Harlow, but you’re not a pilot, right?”
“That’s true; I’m no pilot,” Ruby said. “But I’m a captain, and I’ve recruited someone.”
“Is he here?” Pickle anxiously scanned the lot. “I don’t see him.”
She crossed her arms again. “What makes you so certain my pilot’s male?”
“Well, uh, erm, I, uh, aww gee, lady.”
She glared at him with piercing brown eyes. “Because all pilots are men, right?”
Pickle started to sweat again. “Ugh, sorry, miss.”
“Captain.” Ruby doubled down. “And what makes you think I’m single?”
“Well, I, erm, I, just assumed … Jesus.” Then, flustered, he decided to try and reason with the father instead. “What about you, Mr. Harlow? Do you know how to fly?”
Bob took a long drag from his cigarette, then exhaled his answer. “Well, actually, no.”
“And I certainly can’t fly.” Pickle shrugged. “I’m not a pilot.”
“Obviously,” Ruby snarked.
“So you see why it’s impossible.”
“Impossible?” She raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Gloria didn’t materialize out of thin air. How’d you get her here without a pilot?”
Pickle sighed with exasperation. “Look, I buy impounded vessels at auction, then pay to have them towed and parked here. Hopefully, I sell some. That’s it. There’s no flying involved.”
Bob clipped his walkie-talkie to his belt and made skeptical eye contact with his daughter. “No flying involved in spaceship sales?”
Ruby scoffed, “No offense, Mr. Pickle, but that seems like bad business.”
“You know what, Starlight?” Her dad tugged on her arm. “Maybe we should check out that marble jumper we saw earlier.”
She asked, “What jumper?”
“You remember, the cute little one you liked—” Bob pointed with his dwindling cigarette at the road. “—parked on the lawn, way back that way.”
Ruby thought: I like how this is going, Dad and me putting the pinch on Pickle.
“Oh, yes.” She played along, nodding while stroking her chin as if considering the fictional ship. “I did like that one, didn’t I?”
“Okay, okay, fine, you win—no more games. But I’m telling you two. It’s physically impossible to get Gloria up in the air right now.” Pickle swiped his tablet, then held it up for them to see. “Can I offer you a virtual test flight instead?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” she said. “Let’s see.”
Pickle hustled over, sidestepping all the way. After swiping his screen a few times, he cued up the demo, and a dark cinematic background appeared on his tablet. Then, the video began to play.
Bob laughed. “This looks like a doctored clip from Star Wars.”
Pickle asked, “From what war now?”
“You know, Star Wars.” He flicked his spent cigarette butt aside. “It’s an old sci-fi movie.”
The clueless man shrugged.
No longer interested in the video, Bob started poking around underneath the spaceship again.
But Ruby kept watching the tablet. “Is this supposed to impress me?”
“This demo features the flight controls, standard equipment, and options included in this model.”
“I’m not concerned about any of that.” Ruby turned to place her palm on the cold black alloy of the hull, then traced her finger along the red pinstripe. “I need to feel the ship—feel her from the inside.”
That came across with more sexual innuendo than she’d intended, but thankfully, Pickle didn’t notice.
Her walkie-talkie squawked. “Hey, Starlight, this ship has a bad stabilizer.”
“What are you trying to push on us, Pickle?” She wagged her handheld radio in Randy’s face. “A bad stabilizer? Now I’m wondering what else is wrong with Gloria.”
“What?” The salesman got defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Through the radio, Bob said, “And both rear equilibrium enhancers are shot too.”
“Well, well, well, did you hear that? I’m going to need you to lower your asking price, Pickle.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Knock off twenty percent, or we walk.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
She pressed the talk button. “We’re done here, Dad.”
Bob scrambled out from under the ship. “No deal?”
Ruby shook her head to confirm. “No deal.”
So the two walked away and meant it this time.
Captain Ruby Harlow is in a real pickle. And I'm not even talking about Randall Pickle, the sleezy salesman who sells Ruby and her father Bob a haunted spaceship. I'm talking about the fact that the spaceship, Gloria, has a mind of her own--as well as an abundance of creepy ghosts and spooky bats. After Ruby and her crew set out for space, things just keep getting worse and worse. Gloria pulls Ruby's crew--including her wife and a sex fembot--out of cryo-sleep both way early and way off course. It's here, far away from any signs of life, that space hysteria starts to set in for Bob. Bob is convinced that the onboard doctor is literally Dracula, and he becomes determined to slay the undead fiend and his minions--and anyone who gets in his way.
Ava Lock (author of the hilarious and hilariously smart Womanoid Diaries Series) is back with Space Hysteria: a wacky, sexy, gory part-slasher part-erotic romp through the vastness of space and the vastness of the mind. On the one hand: Bob has schizophrenia. He's off his meds, which is causing paranoia and delusions. On the other hand: Doctor Vlad is incredibly suspicious. He seems to be sniffing the crew, and he might be drinking their blood samples. As the state of the ship rapidly deteriorates into finger-pointing and chaos, each crew member will have to decide who to trust and what plan of action to take.
Although the book switches focus when it comes to the characters, the main heart of the story lies with Ruby. After a disastrous previous mission, she's determined to pull things together and succeed, against enormous odds. This cheeky science fiction adventure not only follows Ruby's attempts to manage her increasingly violent father, but the narrative also grapples with serious questions about relationships and sexuality. Layered throughout are enough crafty movie references to please any film nerd--especially fans of horror, as there are plenty of blood and guts on offer as well. While sometimes the focus on hallucinatory material can cause the narrative to stray off track, overall Space Hysteria is an excellent combination of saucy humor and shocking carnage.