Greg Bear - [War Dogs (Ares Rising) 03] - Take Back the Sky (retail) (epub) ALSO BY GREG BEAR ORBIT NEWSLETTER Navigation Begin Reading Table of. Eternity () is a science fiction novel by Greg goudzwaard.info is the second book in his The Way series, dealing largely with the aftermath of the. Vitals by Greg Bear standalone sci fi novel () Blending fierce, fast PDF, ePub, Mobi Download free read Vitals online for your Kindle.

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Greg Bear Epub

PDF, ePub, Mobi Download free read Hardfought online for your Kindle, The NOOK Book (eBook) of the Hardfought by Greg Bear at Barnes. Gregory Dale Greg Bear (born August 20, ) is an American writer and illustrator best known for science goudzwaard.info work has covered. Isaac Asimovs renowned Foundation Trilogy pioneered many of the familiar themes of modern science fiction and shaped many of its best writers. With the.

His newest novel, Vitals, begins with a harrowing descent to a netherworld at the very bottom of the sea—and then explodes to the surface in sheer terror. Hal Cousins is one of a handful of scientists nearing the most sought after discovery in human history: the key to short-circuiting the aging process. Fueled by a wealth of research, an overdose of self-confidence, and the money of influential patrons to whom he makes outrageous promises, Hal experiments with organisms living in the hot thermal plumes in the ocean depths. But as he journeys beneath the sea, his other world is falling apart. Hal himself barely eludes a cold-blooded attack at sea, and when he returns home to Seattle, he finds himself walking into an eerie realm where voices speak to him from the dead. Suddenly Hal is trapped inside an ever-twisting maze of shocking revelations. For he is not the first person to come close to ending aging forever—and those who came before him will stop at nothing to keep the secret to themselves. From the Hardcover edition.

Most of the angst is behind us, though gender identity issues will be discussed later on. No major trigger warnings, mainly just lots of fluff here.

Work Text: Sherlock… was enjoying this. Sherlock was a vain git, he could spend hours just looking at himself in the mirror, not that John would blame him. John would spend all day looking at that marvelous face too if he could. When Sherlock and Mycroft, how predictable would sit on their couch together pouring over color scheme samples and prattling on about flowers and pocket squares and ties vs bow ties and waistcoats and… God, a million other thing, John would have to pull on every reserve of patience he had.

When, god forbid, Sherlock would turn to him holding up two shades of blue which John could swear were almost the exact same and ask his opinion, John would mentally scramble for an answer and resist the urge to dash from the flat. He did, but everything seemed so big. A whole new world of etiquette and expectations. Why, if John had it his way, he and Sherlock would have just put on their best suits and skipped on down to the courthouse, then come straight back to Baker Street for sex so loud it would make Mrs.

Turner next door turn scarlet. This was far more work. In that time Sherlock had finally gotten his casts removed and was still doing physical therapy to regain full mobility. It had turned into a game for them because Sherlock was a stubborn arse who would avoid listening to anyone else at all costs. But with a bit of creativity, John had figured out some interesting ways to ensure Sherlock was begging for physical therapy.

John smiled smugly to himself at the memory of Sherlock stretching his foot and doing toe-ups while John greedily suckled at his hard cock. The burn of atrophied muscles had been just enough discomfort to kept Sherlock right on the edge for a glorious hour. It was one of the best hours of Johns life.

They had taken up cases again, but now only John got the end say. He hated having that responsibility. Though, to be fair to himself, he felt he was getting better at it. The light cases and wedding planning had been enough to keep Sherlock from being a danger to himself or shooting up the wall, so John counted the whole affair as a win.

But if John was honest, all of that was currently at the back of his mind. John bit his lip anxiously and twisted his own engagement ring around and around on his finger. It was a dark gold color and had the chemical formula for love engraved along the inside.

As if reading his mind both Holmes brothers eyes flashed up to him. He froze for a moment, feeling a bit like a mouse waiting for a cat to pounce. After a long moment of analyzing him head to toe, the brothers moved simultaneously. God, that was creepy, as much as the brothers argued and bickered, they both stayed in perfect sync. They often moved so similarly, so seamlessly, that it gave John the shivers.

John shifted a bit. Why did all these colors have such weird names? Mycroft hummed in agreement. He knew how to make the man stay functional on a case, he knew how to keep the good days good and most importantly he knew how to care for Sherlock on the bad ones. This, John supposed as he slipped into his coat, is just how two people perfectly suited for each other worked.

They knew each other inside and out; they knew what the other person was thinking or wanting or needing before the other person even had to voice such desires. As John readied to leave and meet his future brother-in-law at the pub near NSY, he paused to lay a kiss upon Sherlock's brow.

Sherlock lifted his head, leaning into the soldier like a cat.

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Sherlock just smiled mischievously and brushed him off. Still, John had to look around for a moment before he saw Lestrade. He was sitting at a two top, absently watching the footie replay on the telly as he sipped at his pint and picked at his fish and chips. John smiled as he approached the table and Lestrade turned his gaze to him. It was easy to see what drew Mycroft in during these softer moments, John thought as he approached his friend.

John shook his hand, clapping him warmly on the back and smiling. Greg gave him a sympathetic look as the waitress swiftly retreated behind the counter. John picked at his chips after the waitress swiftly set them down.

Greg cocked his head in confusion, silently asking John to expand. John took a swig of his drink and sighed. I mean, I guess not the day of, and not the actually getting married, being with them forever bit, but the planning? The way they get so consumed in it, all the millions of tiny choices? How big it all gets for no reason?

Greg Bear — The Forge of God

Honestly, the first time around, ok, whatever. I had a wife, she cared about the dresses and the flowers and all that other shite. Just, go on down to the courthouse and have it be done, exchange the rings, run off for a week to somewhere secluded and go at it like rabbits, change our names, call it good.

John nodded thoughtfully as they continued on chatting over their lunch as he debated how to broach the topic now, four months into planning. When he returned home, feeling much more relaxed and at ease, Mycroft was gone.

It was so bizarre to no longer have to dance around Sherlock's chemistry sets. No strange body parts in the fridge, no dangerous chemicals left to be mixed into edible foods, no eyeballs in the mugs, just a neat, tidy kitchen. Sherlock had taken a shine to the idea of having a privet room for all his experiments, though there was a small armchair in the corner reserved for John.

John smiled to himself as he took the two mugs into the living room, setting one at Sherlock's side table and curling himself around the other in his own armchair. After another moment Sherlock snapped the laptop closed and looked at him, assessing. Sherlock's mouth turned down in displeasure and he huffed in annoyance. John scrubbed his face. Our former allies are creeping up from behind to destroy us all. The rest of the Russians occupy the last three. On my recommendation-and on threat of ice torpedoes closing in from all sides-we've stopped trying to defend ourselves and have surrendered to the birdlike creatures we've fought for years on Mars and elsewhere.

We call them Antagonists, Ants or Antags for short. Starshina Ulyanova frantically resisted that surrender and had to be subdued by Tak and Jacobi. She lies quiet now in her sling behind Jacobi. Her rank is roughly equal to DJ's, corporal, but edging over into sergeant.

She's still having a rough time. Her cheeks and forehead are beaded with sweat, and she stares into the upper shadows of the cabin, lips pressed tight. Her instinct is to continue the fight, even if it means self-destruction-either resisting the Antags, who are presumably here to save us, or trying to destroy our own people.

I don't really blame her.

She's surrounded by leaders and soldiers who haven't had time to explain the fundamentals we're all facing. Besides, we don't speak Russian, and her English is rudimentary. Even so, there's something odd about her, as if she's listening to voices none of the rest can hear-except me. Why do I think that's possible? That she's being subjected to an experience similar to my own, maybe to DJ's ,,, Maybe not so much to DJ.

Maybe just to me. No evidence for any of these hunches, really, but that by itself doesn't mean she's crazy. On Mars, inside the first Drifter, DJ and Kazak and I all got dosed with a powder produced by deep-buried fragments of ancient crystal brought to Mars billions of years before on pieces of exploded ice moon.

We called the powder Ice Moon Tea, and my sensitivity to its messages was what convinced Commander Borden to rescue me from Madigan Hospital, where I was scheduled for execution. I'm one of the special ones. Glory be. So is DJ. Kazak-Sergeant Temur Nabiyev, our favorite Mongolian-was also one of the special ones, but he died on Mars before I returned.

In our heads, ancient history bumps up against the captured and stored memories of fallen comrades. Sometimes it's like dancing on a cloud-impossible, but if you don't believe, you fall.

I can't shake the strangely lovely image of Captain Coyle settling into her peculiar death. On Mars, when she tried to blow up the first Drifter, under orders from the Gurus on Earth, she and her teammates turned into shiny black glass. We thought those who turned glass were dead. But some came back to haunt us.

Absorbing and co-opting enemies is one way the ancient archives preserve themselves. That's what the Drifter's crystals contained-a gateway to records kept billions of years ago by our earliest progenitors-inhabitants of the outer ice moons of the ancient solar system. Giant, intelligent bugs. Coyle first came to visit me after I returned to Earth and was locked up at Madigan.

In those early hours, her presence was confused, less an actual voice and more like word balloons in a comic-empty word balloons. But soon enough they filled in, and what was left of Coyle did her brusque best to take me step by step through the courtesies and techniques of the bug archives.

Dead Lines by Greg Bear (ePUB)

She introduced me to the semiautomated steward who parcels out that memory, if you're qualified, if you know how to ask the right sort of questions. The bugs are long gone, but their voices still echo. At Madigan, and on the way back to Mars, I relived bits and pieces of bug history, watched those ancient ancestors of both humans and Antags burrow up through the icy shells of their moons and discover the stars. Life had first evolved on those moons, long before Earth turned green, in deep oceans warmed by residual radiation and the constant tug of tidal energy from their gas-giant planets.

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I learned that this wasn't the first time creatures like the Gurus had entered our solar system and provoked wars. I learned that the bugs had fought one another long, long ago-class against class, changing the shape and disposition of the outer solar system. Its continuing character Jill was inspired in part by Robert A. Bear is credited for the middle book. While most of Bear's work is science fiction, he has written in other fiction genres.

Examples include Songs of Earth and Power fantasy and Psychlone horror. Bear has described his Dead Lines, which straddles the line between science fiction and fantasy, as a "high-tech ghost story ".

He met Bradbury in and had a lifelong correspondence. As a teenager Bear attended Bradbury lectures and events in Southern California.

Nielson; they divorced in In , he married Astrid Anderson, the daughter of the science fiction and fantasy authors Poul and Karen Anderson. They have two children, Erik and Alexandra. They reside near Seattle , Washington.

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