Beyond the Stars: At Galaxy's Edge

“COMMANDER. THE ELVII zygotes on level H are restless. Reporting a steep drop in the cryotemp. Growth is exponential. Action required immediately.” Rora’s twelfth alert pushed Commander Jonat B. Rutherford over the edge.

“Twisted balls of a sauced-out sea monkey!”

Spit flew onto the console. “Gawned dammit, Freckles! How many times do I have to issue an order? Freeze them deep. Do it now! We’re still twenty Earth years out. Spoilage. Spoilage and waste, that’s all that I hear. Make it right and do it quick.”

The commander’s frustration bloomed in an ugly red splotch across his grizzled face. He scratched absentmindedly at the poor clump of hair that dangled from his chin. He called it a beard. Rora couldn’t categorize it as anything other than a scrawny squirrel hanging onto his face for dear life. “Damn nuisances,” Commander Rutherford fumed. “I swear to the deepest gullet of a Smathonian banded whale! This whole consarned voyage has been nothin’ but trouble.”

Behind him, Adjunct Human Interface Rora A8302 nodded, as it had been programmed to do. The movement implied that it listened. That it cared. Rora did not care. Still, it had listened to the five years of ranting that the old human had so far vented, cataloguing each word. With less than .0001% of its computing power, it reviewed and reported conditions aboard the spaceship. Its jointed fingers moved with an efficient factory speed of two thousand clicks per minute.

Grunting, the old man sat in the central chair that dominated the control center. From there, the commander continued to growl. Rora noted any new curse words or phrases while inputting the directions necessary to apply cryofreeze to rooms 7 through 41.

Across the narrow cockpit, Jonat muttered, “There’s always something bubbling up on a junker this old. Can’t wait to finish. Time to get a ship that’s worth a damn.”

He spat toward the incendiary. He missed. Slowly, the glob of his disgust ran down the dented metal siding.

Rora computed again: Is twenty-five years of servitude worth the cost of the journey? Will Multi-Global Corporation keep its word? Insufficient data.

Recording everything as the universe sped along, each long shipboard year marked by their passing, Rora left no detail out of the compiled reports. Time was a human concept. Machines knew only actions and results. And the long-winded companionship of one doddering, foul-mouthed sailor.

“Report: Cryoengines four, five, six, and eight are online, sir.” It listed off the situation specifics, sparing no detail. “They report full capacity of humafreeon. No errors. Cryoengine seven does not respond to the request, sir.”

Rolling his eyes, the commander snorted in disbelief. Turning to the five screens that displayed the schematics of Space Federation Epsilon Pi-15’s layout, he peered at the map, scanning for the next emergency, the next bolt to fall off of the junker.

Entropy ruled his tin-can world.

The trouble was as obvious as a hooker after credits. The graphed area of cryoengines all blinked green except that one: Seven. Of course. Reaching up with his wrinkled hand, Jonat poked at the blinking red light with an index finger, full of irritation.

Sighing away his exhaustion, he scrambled into his repair spacesuit one tired bone after another. “This shift had best be over soon, Freckles. I need rest.” His words were muffled after that. He set the helmet over his head and gave it a quarter turn. It locked into place with a click.

And then his tirade continued over the communication channel. “‌—‌no cause for this kind of failure. It’s like they want to ruin me. Crap for cargo, dirt for pay.” Pushing on the three buttons next to the capsule door, Jonat’s tirade of wrongs continued long after he had clomped down the plasteel walkway and vanished into the bowels of Epsilon.

The cavernous spaceship ate him. Swallowed efficiently by the long cargo hold of the lightyear class spaceship, the human talked his way through the minor repair, complaining every ten seconds on average. Rora counted each one using less than .00004% of its computing power.

Muting his grumble on every channel except the autopilot had the desired effect: quiet‌—‌grand and majestic. Tilting its head up, the robot stood still as only a machine could, locked in the cockpit of Epsilon. Above its alumaflesh, the view window displayed a hundred galaxies spinning out their existence, burning into eternity.

Touching the port panels, Rora A8302 absorbed their distant light while the ship rocketed onward, fumbling towards its destination. Colony Earth 926 needed to be settled. Epsilon was the cheapest cargo ship available for the freight of zygotes, genetically prepared vegetation, and edible, hardy stock animals. All to create another Entertainment Planet. And Multi-Global Corporate was only willing to gamble a little. Credits equaled expense. People equaled supplies needed. And so Epsilon Pi 15 set out with human genes, five living adults and a fourth generation AI.

Rora knew all that. The data was clear. The colony would need technical help to establish. Knowledge would be lost without Rora’s presence. Settling a distant planet, far out of the way of the main settlements posed risks. Rora assessed everything.

This ship was the best option of 105,398 available.

Now, the Adjunct Human Interface stood in the shelter of the wobbling ship, speeding across the explored universe. Every twenty-four hours of travel was another length of space and constructed time away from the ongoing wars. And that had value. Peace had value.

And something more. New data.

About a year into their colonial terraforming journey, Rora found an unexpected connection. A merging so ethereal, the robotic computing mind could not describe the sensation. It began when the digits of its alumaflesh connected to the plasteel of the ship. And only on the stardeck of the pilot room, only there. It was impossible to define in numbers. But the robot felt something. Felt whole. Felt gigantic. Felt.

Home.

All records were tabulated, the results examined: results inconclusive. The ship itself had only a basic functioning navigation system complete with a sturdy bootlegged version of SpaceNav autopilot. It kept seizing up every few months. There was no trace of a bug or malware. But there was something, something living within the Epsilon. Rora could not find the numbers to describe it. Sensation didn’t make the daily report. Indefinable data was unconfirmed information: undocumented. Each interaction with the ship reinforced the AHI’s curiosity. It could be static, space noise. Rora checked the connection, searching for explanation, finding nothing abnormal.

As hard as the robot looked, the old ship gave away no secrets. Rora didn’t mind the odd. It folded into the patterns aboard ship. Epsilon needed constant maintenance. Each machine lived up to its programming, nothing more. Nothing less. For now, Rora watched, waiting for the eventual explanation.

Silence wrapped around its unblinking eyes, winding through the statue of its form. Immobile, resting as machines do, renewing, restoring, repairing, Rora estimated the spacetime by watching the gases of a thousand dying stars. Each second, every minute on board was filled with a million computations; Rora absorbed it all. Stars and numerals, infinity and space, zeroes and ones all marched into one single file screen inside the robot’s systems.

On only one channel did the human mewl and struggle. Everywhere else, there was a simplicity to the vast universe just beyond the cockpit windows.

The outer door decompressed. Jonat returned, sullen as a trapped octopus. The commander did not speak to Rora. His attitude continued to sour as it had steadily for the last five years.

“Two hours until handoff, sir.”

“Freckles, believe me I know. I realize what day it is. I count every damn second.” Walking over to the stainless plasteel surface near the door, the human looked at his reflection. Wildness, the kind of special crazy that only comes from living on a desert island for years, talking only to a shiny bit of seashell‌—‌that kind of insanity. Madness looked right back at Jonat Rutherford, matching him glare for glare. With a gob of spit, he smoothed back the frizz of his hair and then nodded at his reflection.

It was not an improvement.

“At least for a few hours I get to talk to an actual person. Bet you’re thrilled, eh, Freckles?”

He spoke, but expected no answer. Rora was a machine, nothing more.

A few minutes later, a red light started blinking on the ship schematics. And Jonat’s tirade flared back to life as he ranted through yet another repair in the endless stream of his days.

“...and you’ll need to keep an eye on the decompressors. Specifically, the ones on decks R, M, and in the engine room. They’ve been tricky for the last six months.” Jonat continued his report, adding in any details he needed to pass on.

Words came out of his mouth like a flash flood, crashing over the head of Commander Jean Denton Basel. She nodded as he spoke, still trying to wake from her five year sleep. Besides, everything he mentioned was right there in her hands, listed by order of importance and by date.

Rora followed the two humans, carrying Jonat’s bottle of rum and five frozen Atlantic penguins in a cryobox. Jonat mentioned a few more times his plans to penguin farm when the ship arrived. When the ship arrived... That’s when life began again.

For Jonat and the other humans, this time between planets was a horrible nightmare: the sleeping, the hurtling through space, the disconnect from every particle of past, every memory of Earth. Boring, repetitive, full of clerical reports and repairs, being awake on the Epsilon was not being alive. It was only the half-waking of the damned sailors who signed on to venture out to the edges of the constellations. Only a way station between residences.

The new commander, Jean, didn’t mind Jonat’s barrage of words, but most of her responses were clipped. Efficient. Assessing.

When the assessment was done, all three of them ended up back at the cryochambers. The fifth room had JONAT RUTHERFORD on the plaque across the door. His personal sleeping quarters. The time had come to sleep again.

Motioning to the AHI to place the frozen penguins by the airlock, the old man stepped over the seal. Jean and Rora waited at the door. When Jonat settled into his bunk, he finally stopped talking. Staring at the doorway with hooded eyes, there was a hunger in his gaze. Every blink revealed a glimmer of insanity. A need for the empty hand of sleep to grab ahold of him and pull him into the unlife of cryosleepers. A longing to wake up, already at their destination.

The awkward silence between the humans was a farewell of sorts.

The newly-awakened commander stepped back, away from the pressurized door. She saluted, and pressed four buttons. Activated, the forcefield around the sleeping area sealed, cryosleep humafreeon filled the air inside. A limited forcefield on the chamber doorhatch kept any residue from leaking out of the compartment.

“One Rutherford popsicle: done,” Jean commented aloud. That was remarkable. And it was the funniest thing she said for the next three years.

While Jean slept twelve hours, the AHI waited. Rora watched the stars as each ball of light crossed the solar windshields of Epsilon. Repairs continued. Each time the new thirty-six hour shift started, Jean spoke less frequently.

Rora wasn’t lonely. Machines don’t get lonely. The AHI wasn’t alone, anyway: Rora and Epsilon were friends. And though it seems laughable in terms of humanity’s grasp of such a thing, it was a friendship. A connection.

Something more was involved than an autopilot sealed within the computers of an ancient cargo ship. Rora couldn’t have reported what exactly.

There was no mention in the ship’s logs as far back as the robot could access. There was no trace of being, no program, no signs of life. But Rora knew. Data didn’t lie.

Every time its digits made contact with the plasteel frame of the cockpit, Rora was part of something beyond a machine’s computing. Somewhere, between the zeroes and ones of the basic programming, a personality existed. Rora couldn’t communicate with the strange thing, beyond the simplest of contact. Beyond the physical touch of its circuits and the walls of the cargo ship. But as each day passed, Rora watched the data. It was overwhelming. Something intelligent lived inside the battered shell and patchwork that was Epsilon.

Less than two years were left in Jean’s rotation.

Four months and three solar days ago, the human female had stopped talking almost altogether. At least to Rora. The descent into madness had begun. Humans were notoriously fragile. And the tipping point, once crossed, was hard to salvage. Insanity was a mirage oasis in the desert of loneliness. Very few returned from its waters unscathed.

Rora calculated the data, monitored their trajectory, assessed wear and tear inside the ship and presented its findings to the commander. Jean flipped through the daily reports while sipping the single cup of artificial coffee dispensed by her orders. It had been empty for more than ten hours.

“Walter,” she said to no one, “We must walk the dog. The brown one, you remember? And get some mustard for the pumpkin.”

Rora parsed the illogical sentences, checking them for meaning. There was none. That had ceased two shifts ago. Still, the human woman sat at the control chair for the greater part of the thirty-six hour wake-cycle.

Sometimes, she put on the repair suit and walked the corridors of the cargo ship in semi-darkness. She spoke erratically in the belly of the whale. Rora recorded and reported the ramblings. When the commander returned to the cockpit, there was no sign of improvement.

Rora waited out the days until the next commander would be awoken. Trying to minimize the damage, trying to limit the repairs assigned to only the most crucial.

When there was only one more waking hour on the shift, Rora settled into a sentry pattern. Trouble was on the event horizon. But the twelve-hour rest period the human body required meant the AHI could run through options and theories. There was still time to salvage the mission. But not much. Maybe four more sleep cycles before the human cracked wide against the hardness of insanity. Rora monitored everything, digits flying.

Do no harm to humans. That was Rora’s primary coded compass.

Turning away, the AHI split its focus between the repairs absolutely necessary to the spaceship and the echo of intelligence that floated in between the metal and material.

There was no warning.

Too late, the robot discovered the cost of insanity, the price they would all pay.

Smashing her fist down with the recklessness of a drunkard, the hallucinating commander opened emergency hatches built into the cryochambers. Three different buttons had to be pushed in specific sequence. Without pause Jean Denton Basel did that, venting one room after another to the vastness of space. Sending the sleeping humans, the replacement commanders into the last, final embrace. The glee in her eyes was unmistakably horrible.

Rora charged to the command consoles, making contact with the commander just before the third button was pressed. The robot’s alumaflesh hand blocked the final vent button. That action saved Jonat B. Rutherford and his frozen penguins from their floating demise.

Perplexed, the AHI marveled at the loss. All the other humans were jettisoned waste, speeding away in the wake of Epsilon Pi’s burning engines.

“There are whales!” Jean cried, waving her hands over her head. Walking away from the control panels, she stood in front of the viewscreen, her reflection distorted by the distance. The panic on her face marked the vivid end of her mind. “Shining whales, do you see them? Do you se‌—‌” Sliding up behind the crazed woman, the robot injected sedatives into the back of her arm. And then caught her as she collapsed.

Rora returned the commander to her cryochamber. The usually tidy quarters looked like vandals had run through the room. Setting the sleeping woman on the bed, the AHI straightened the area, setting it right.

Stepping out into the hallway, Rora walked past the four buttons that sealed the cryochambers closed and activated the dispersal of humafreeon. A machine could not initiate the sleep. The makers of robots and spaceships didn’t trust the machines to make the right decision, only the logical ones. And when right wasn’t the addition of all available information, well, only a human could decide.

Jean needed to rest. Actually, she needed far, far more than that: her fractured mind needed to be submerged back into the primal sleep. There was no cure. Not until her feet could touch real land, until she could stand by an ocean and dig her toes into the sand. And there was no chance of that for another eleven and a half years.

Rora noted the incident and the symptoms in the report.

As the robot spun to return to the cockpit, there was an awful shriek, more enraged gibbon than human, more incomprehensible fury than anything else. Through the cryochamber’s open door, what once was Commander Jean Denton Basel sprang, foaming at the mouth, bloodshot eyes full of murderous anger.

Tackling the unprepared AHI, Jean knocked it over. With the strength of ten humans, she ripped and tore at the alumaplastic body. Brutally pulling at exposed wires, the frenzied commander ripped apart anything within reach, switching off functions. Rora flailed metal and plasadium appendages, attempting to limit the destruction.

One arm connected to sweaty human flesh. With the thunk of a baseball bat, the alumaflesh knocked the unstable woman off. She landed against the hatchway wall with a muffled sound of bones snapping, of jelly lurching free of a broken glass jar.

A thin trickle of blood escaped her open mouth.

Sitting up, Rora assessed the damage to its components: 65.9% function in arm and both legs. Leaking fluid, in need of repair. The human was not much better off.

Lurching to its feet, Rora approached the fallen woman. The pool of blood under the human’s head grew. Violently red liquid spread across the embossed flooring of the walkway. One robot foot stepped into the blood as the machine assessed the damage. Scans showed internal hemorrhaging, compressed ribcage, fractured bones, broken spine.

She was slipping into shock, well on her way to critical. Rora’s mandate was clear: Save the Human.

Picking up the failing body, the AHI hurried back to the cockpit, to the only being awake on the faltering spaceship. Setting down the injured woman, the robot touched the wall at the one location where it felt the presence of the ghost in the machine.

At the same time, Rora initiated standard medical treatment: isolation and a gravbed. Turning on advanced biomedical programming to fix the damage done by its own hand, Rora watched as lasers and tools of light manipulated the floating woman. Attempting to fix what had been badly broken, the technology was swift and pinpoint accurate.

Shock dilated Jean’s eyes as her blank face spun within the forcefield. Drugs could only do so much. Every time her gaze rotated towards Rora, deadly, threatening emotions flooded those irises. Even the pain that filled her senses did not quiet the beast of madness. So much damage was done, the human would take days, weeks to recover.

And Rora knew that was the limit of the time it had. Jean Denton Basel’s recovery equaled the AHI’s decommission. No human judiciary would take its side, listen to its reports, quantify the various stages of insanity. Even now, the frail creatures refused to admit the simple truth: they were not designed for space travel. This tragedy would be blamed squarely on a malfunctioning AHI.

Spinning in her medical cocoon, the hostility of the damaged human did not wane. In fact, her mouth moved in a specific pattern of words. Even without sound, the robot could clearly read: I will. Destroy. It. All.

I will. Destroy. This. Gawdforsaken. Ship.

I will. End you. Cannot. Stop m‌—‌

Rora raised the digits of its functional arm, attempting again to find contact with the spaceship. There persisted this definite feeling of connection, of reaching something, someone. Under the hateful glare of the madwoman, the AHI tuned every resource and bandwidth to communicating with Epsilon Pi-15. Or whatever lived in its wires, engines, and the spaces between its drives. Necessity beat out curiosity.

Faster than light, the information flew out, sounding through the ship, echoing down empty hallways, burning across the fire of engine sparks. And the signal held every report, every detail. At the end, Rora asked these questions: What is the value of life? What is the worth of one? What is the worth of the many?

Then, it waited with the patience of a machine and the stubbornness it had learned from one Jonat B. Rutherford. 3.852 seconds later, the spaceship answered. Rather like a Smathonian whale talking to the slightest orange krill, the images filtered through the slow sound waves.

Rora sorted the data. And then it acted.

“A better day, Commander?” Rora asked politely.

Repairs had been slow but efficient to its damaged structures. The robot carried on a conversation, writing all the details in every report. In exact wording, the AHI noted the patient’s status, the declining health, the refusal to allow treatment. Most important, the reports stated, insanity had permanently settled around the swollen brain. Never resolving.

Carefully, Rora kept all the notes, filing away any information that did not conform. Sorting the contrary data into a file hidden under a thousand passwords, deeper than any human could access.

“This is the medicine you need, Sir.” Simple instructions. The words it spoke did not match any action taken. There was medicine. It sat in the room, on the shiny, sterile table to the left of the isolation chamber. The robot did not lift the needles, did not attempt to administer the drug. Instead, it reported: Patient refused treatment. Noted.

Report: Patient delirious. Noted.

Jean glared at the Adjunct Human Interface with undiminished hatred until Rora administered the paralyzing agent. Her scowl lessened but the madness inside her mind did not, even in an induced sleep.

“Sir, this is necessary. You must take this medicine,” Rora spoke to the unconscious commander.

Report: Patient continues to fail.

Breaking the needed drugs into bits, Rora flushed them out into space, flotsam on the solar winds.

Report: All possible avenues exhausted. Noted.

Report: Brain death expected within a short period. Life failing to thrive even after all the repairs had been made to blood and bone.

The human woman stared at Rora with menacing eyes, very much alive. And very, very deadly.

There were few options available on a junker cargo ship drifting in the middle of the vastness of the starlanes. Another ship might pass this way along roughly the same route. But not for decades or more.

And everything on the ship required the genetic signature and physical body of a human to authorize. Rora was machine. It served at the pleasure of the Multi-Global Entertainment partnership and only as a tool of accounting and measurement.

Rora continued to receive reports of partial system failures, of bolts and screws popping off of walls, of engines rattling, faltering without the ongoing maintenance each part of the ship needed. The AHI recorded the mechanical problems as they arose but was powerless to fix the ship as it steadily disintegrated.

Jonat could be awoken, but he had fulfilled his service already. The bitter edge of madness had danced around his head those last few days of his command. Jonat was needed, but he was too old. Alone, he would falter long before the eleven years that remained of spaceflight. Waking him would only be a temporary solution.

Every scenario that Rora attempted came back with the same results: Epsilon Pi-15 would never make it to Colony Earth 926. Entropy would always win.

Rora could see no other outcome.

But Epsilon did. Whispering across the space in between the metal skeleton and the buffering walls, floated a poem. Its words were initially unclear, wobbling at first. As the robot focused its considerable computing ability on the sounds within the echoes, Rora finally deciphered these words:

A human named Poe had written those words millennia before. Databases confirmed the poem’s title: the Spirits of the Dead. Drifting in space, Rora was oddly comforted. Be silent. Be still.

Rora stood, its digits in contact with the skin of the worn cargo ship. And the AHI watched the stars explode light years away.

After 9 Hours 26 Minutes 15.29 seconds, the robot moved. Its digits sprang into action, working in a blur of precision and desperation. They took parts from one control panel and plundered what was needed. Faster than human thought, the reconstruction began.

Within twenty-five minutes, a working modulation headpiece rested on the console. The AHI gently picked it up, examining all sides, searching for errors, running the construction again and again, theoretically. And then, in the end, the machine-designed interface offered the best outcome, the most logical choice.

Report: Brain death of Jean Denton Basel occurred at 15:11.22. Unable to revive. Delay send.

Standing over the medical cocoon that protected Jean Denton Basel’s body, the AHI readied the final injection. A cocktail of three different paralyzing agents, targeted at the conscious brain. AHIs knew no guilt. Robots had no souls. But the silence of the universe was vast. And the mission would fail unless...

The recalled images of madness lingered in Rora’s memory cache. Hatred that focused was marked and documented. And it would have unnerved any human to be so close to that kind of vicious, berserk emotion.

Rora did not fear. But the images of fury still dominated its memory storage, searing that slashing rage deep into the robot’s system.

Reaching out, Rora adjusted the headgear, powering it up through the stages of activity. One final test run. Results: Clear.

Fury. Vicious Hate. The snarl of the beast looked back at the AHI’s reflection. Commander Jean spoke in spools of nonsense, running through language with the brutality of a Zoneine addict. Garbled and pointless, the sounds tumbled out along with a stream of drool.

Rora ignored the froth of the animal. Madness only led to chaos. And Epsilon would die.

Eleven Earth years from their colony, the thing that saved them was the simple fact: Jean Basel was no longer human. Free of the binding contract between the weaker makers and itself, it could act. So it did. Rora chose life.

Ranting, the human thing roared as the AHI approached. There was no stopping now. No way forward without sacrifice. No path beyond that day, that precious moment. Rora chose.

Placing the headset securely on the writhing, spitting woman, the robot felt nothing. Pity did not exist in circuits and hard drives. Mercy had no adhesion in the millions of wires. Adjusting the angle and control, Rora turned the electrical connections to ON.

The woman’s head fell back, even within the stasis pod. The animal that raged and paced inside Jean’s mind quieted. And then, it ceased.

Breathing quickened and then slowed to a steady rhythm. REM sleep fell across the wrinkles and pain-marked face, softening the lines of madness.

Her fists unclenched. Her jaw fell open. And just like that, Jean Denton Basel was gone.

Her body lay still as stone, spinning in the gentle care of the medical stasis. It glowed with the reflected lights of the ship’s console, flashes of green and blue. Peace dwelt in the broken cage, filling in the tattered edges. Death came for the ravages of madness, calming what could never be fixed.

In that moment, the consoles of the cockpit all flickered. Electricity surged throughout the ship, starboard to port, stern to bow. Every graph confirmed the random spike.

And then, her eyelids fluttered and opened.

Rora checked every detail, every measurement. And then it extended its digits toward the medical cocoon. Feedback looped through its alumaflesh connections. Machines do not have feelings. Machines do not matter. Any computer can be repaired or replaced.

But not Rora.

And not the Ghost of Epsilon Pi-15. Her human lips broke open in a smile so radiant that words could not describe it. There was nothing to report. Nothing to compare.

Erase Previous Report. Delete subfile. Overwrite.

Report: Commander Jean Denton Basel has made a full recovery.

Medicine administered per protocol has been successful in reviving the failing commander. Duties will resume after one sleep cycle.

Noted.

Q&A with Caroline A. Gill

What drives you to write?

I am constantly surprised by the stories that pour out of my fingertips. Sometimes, I find myself reading along as the tale unfolds, more reader than writer. There is a need for dreaming, a need for hope threading through our modern world. And that heroism, that determination to better our lives, fills every novel and movie screen. We are more than the sum of our parts. Every day, my life swings up and down, through the pitfalls and triumphs of existence. Each night, I look at what I have achieved. So many things in life are transitory. Writing lifts me out of the repetition, out of the tedium. And reading helps me fly even when my wings are broken.

Why this story?

Rules. Rules order the universe. Rules are important. But the breaking of rules, the choice to rebel is equally needed. Conformity has benefits. But sometimes, rules must be changed. And it takes loyalty, friendship, and wisdom to determine when defiance is not only considered but necessary. That choice defines a hero.

That choice also defines a villain. Timing. It’s all in the timing and the intentions.

Where would you travel if money and distance were not limitations?

To the Italian Renaissance, Florence. Assuming I can break the laws of time as well. There were so many things wrong with society... but there was so much light in the minds of great men and women. Discovery of science, aviation, painting, sculpture. All of it. I want to see all of it through the eyes of giants like Da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo. There is something shattering about seeing the beginning of creativity, the blossoming of potential on the shoulders of genius. Even today, five hundred years later, the echoes of their work continue to change the city, state, and world. Creative people show the rest of us the best that we can be. They give us something to strive for. They light the way for us to dream. DaVinci imagined so many things, including war machines and robots... that is where it all begins.

What else have you written?

I just completed my first trilogy, the Flykeeper Chronicles.

Flying Away, Flying Blind, and Flying Free are the stories of Iolani Bearse and her strange gift. As a lost little girl, she discovers houseflies have magic, long hidden from humans. The flies save her when danger comes hunting in the shadows. Not everyone is so lucky. And as Iolani travels with her broken cousin Eleanor and her pinto mare Mango, she finds a world ravaged by the green lanterns of the memory stealers.

She fights for her family. She fights for the memory of the home she once had. She fights for the hope of a new place, a land of safety and peace. And throughout her travels, Lani lifts as she climbs over the impossible.

I am currently finishing a vampire hunter series titled Kinship. It is not YA. But also, no sparkly vampires either. There is love, loss, mystery, and fangs. I plan to release it in October, 2016.

Caroline A. Gill graduated with an MFA in printmaking and metalsmithing from Northern Illinois University, and then she finished an MA in art history. An avid reader of Goodkind, Eddings, Lackey, Heinlein, Silverstein, and Bradbury, she lives in northern California with her four sons, one daughter who rules them all, and two leopard tortoises.

Follow Caroline on Amazon at: http://amzn.to/2aIDOE0

On Twitter at: @writesuntildawn

Or on Facebook at: http://bit.ly/1PFJKAZ