Machine

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS IS MY THIRTY-SECOND NOVEL, or novel-length work of fiction, anyway.

That is a thing I never thought I would type, back in the days when I was struggling to finish just one novel. And yet here I am, eighteen years later, with thirty-two novels done. Some of those have been collaborations—with Sarah Monette, with the Shadow Unit crew—and they’ve run the gamut from science fiction to fantasy to straight historical mystery.

It feels like an accomplishment, though: thirty-two novels! And since one of the things about being a professional writer is that there is very seldom a chance to look back and reflect on one’s work, because there’s always another book to be pitched/written/revised/promoted/et cetera, another job pushing the previous job out of the queue and over the horizon—well, I decided to indulge myself, and sit back, and enjoy the moment for a little while.

And to say thank you.

Because I could not have done that—written those books—without you, the reader. I get to write them because you want to read them. As far as I’m concerned, telling stories is the best job in the world. Thank you for enabling that, Dear Reader.

I hope you continue enjoying them!

As for the rest: well, books don’t get written in a vacuum. Among its diverse inspirations, this novel owes a debt to the work of James White and C. J. Cherryh, without whose foundational science fiction it never would have been written.

Core General is obviously an homage to Mr. White’s Sector General stories and novels, which I recommend to fans of humane, nonviolent science fiction even today. Some of the social mores in the earliest stories haven’t aged well, but one of the things that has always impressed me about the Sector General stories is that White updated his thinking about gender roles and so forth with the changing times.

My fascination with vast, loosely knit space civilizations and ethical dilemmas probably has no deeper root than the work of Ms. Cherryh, the first science fiction writer I read whose work really made me feel that space was big. News traveled slowly in her universe, and ships traveled fast, and lightspeed lag was a real thing that affected space communication and combat. That blew my mind when I was eleven!

So thanks to those writers for the sandy grit that this particular oyster swallowed, so long ago. Whether the result is a pearl or not… that’s someone else’s job to decide.

While I’m at it, I’d like to individually thank those of my Patreon patrons who have opted in to public recognition: Jodi Davis, Jason Teakle, Alexis Elder, Brad Roberts, Alice Phelan, Adam Christmas, Book Jordan, Tibby Armstrong, Adam DeConinck, Cathy B. Lannom, Siobhan Kelly-Martens, Christa Dickson, Karen Robinson, Stephanie Gibson, Sara Hiat, Richard Glanville, David Lars Chamberlain, George Hetrick, Morgan Cummings, BC Brugger, Jesslyn Hendrix, E.E. Yore, Jon Singer, Thomas Brincefield, Stella Evans, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Phil Margolies, M. Reppy, Glori Medina, Anne Lyle, Curtis Frye, Helen Housand, Kim Mullen-Kuehl, Kevin J. Maroney, Clare Gmur, Nancy Enge, Krystina Colton, Lisa Baker, Graeme Williams, Sharis Ingram, Barb Kanyak, D. Franklin, Max Kaehn, Sarah Hiatt, John Appel, Persephone, Brigid Cain-O’Connor, Fred Y., Edmund Schweppe, Noah Richards, Brooks Moses, Kelly Brennan, Emily Gladstone-Cole, Heather K., Tiff, Jenna Kass, and Jack Gulick.

I’d also like to thank my mom and her partner, Beth; our dedicated neighbors and catsitters, Devin and Alex; my agent, Jennifer Jackson, and her assistant, Michael Curry; my editors, Gillian Redfearn and Navah Wolfe; my dad; all the colleagues and friends who have put up with me complaining about the seemingly infinite revisions it took to get the (hopefully entertainingly) Rube Goldbergian plot of this book to hang together correctly; my copyeditor, Deanna Hoak; John Wiswell and Fran Wilde, first readers whose input on disability issues was invaluable; and my spouse, the one and only Scott Lynch.

Also Duncan, who kept my lap warm while I worked on this novel; Gurney, who was ever at my right hand; and Molly, who limited her assistance to reproachful looks when dinner was delayed by my distraction.