My home is wherever you are.
Rescuer’s Reward by Joe Vasicek
Joe Vasicek is the author of more than twenty science fiction books, including the Star Wanderers and Sons of the Starfarers series. As a young man, he studied Arabic and traveled across the Middle East and the Caucasus. He claims Utah as his home.
My home is wherever you are.
Rescuer’s Reward by Joe Vasicek
The Fermi Paradox is a classic problem in both science and science fiction. Put briefly, the paradox is this: if the natural conditions that led to the development of our human civilization are not unique, and it is reasonable to assume that alien civilizations more advanced than our own have developed elsewhere, then why haven’t they tried to contact us? In other words, if we aren’t alone in this universe, than where have all the aliens gone?
A number of possible solutions to this paradox have been proposed. Perhaps the aliens just don’t find us interesting enough to reach out. Perhaps we just don’t have the technology to contact them. Or perhaps there’s some sort of “great filter” that prevents alien civilizations from becoming spacefaring, or from becoming more advanced than our own. For example, perhaps when alien civilizations discover nuclear weapons, they destroy themselves in a spectacularly suicidal war.
All of these are interesting… but they’re also very naive. They assume that if aliens did try to contact us, everyone on Earth would know about it. But is that really the case?
If an alien civilization made contact with our own, who would be the first humans to learn about it, and who would be the last? Or in other words, if aliens made limited contact with a few humans, how likely would those humans be to share that information with the rest of us, and how likely would we believe them?
If aliens did make contact with us, it would almost certainly be limited in scope. To illustrate this, let’s break down their contact strategy based on hostile vs. peaceful intent, and whether or not they want to stay hidden:
| Hostile Intent | Peaceful Intent | |
| Stay Hidden | Infiltration mission: choose human targets selectively | Observation mission: gather data from distance |
| Come Out | Invasion mission: reduce human ability to organize and resist | Diplomatic mission: prioritize contact with human leadership |
In each of these strategies, the aliens gain nothing by doing a massive flyby and showing themselves to all of us at once. Even in the case of an invasion mission, they’d probably only want to do that if 1) they had overwhelming force, and 2) they decided to run some sort of shock-and-awe campaign, like Independence Day. But what exactly would they gain from that? Even if they did have overwhelming force, why would they want to present a clear target when they already have the element of surprise?
Point is, in most of these scenarios, the aliens would either want to limit their activities to the fringes of human society, or to establish contact with the human leadership first. Therefore, the first humans to learn about these aliens are either going to be the kind of people the rest of us can easily dismiss, or our leaders, who have every incentive to keep the knowledge of these aliens hidden, as the disruption it would cause would threaten their own power.
Put simply, the solution to the Fermi Paradox may have less to do with the aliens and more to do with us. After all, if aliens really had made contact with humanity, what makes you think you would know?

Freedom is one of those words that sounds simple—until you’re the one paying for it. Patriots in Retreat (Book 6 of Sons of the Starfarers) asks a harder question than “Is freedom worth fighting for?” It asks: what does freedom cost when you’re losing, exhausted, and running out of options—and what are you willing to become in order to keep it?
This theme took shape during a season when I was confronting limits—creative, financial, and personal. The indie publishing landscape was shifting. Advertising costs were rising. Series momentum doesn’t maintain itself. I realized that “creative freedom” wasn’t something I possessed automatically just because I was independent. It had to be defended—through discipline, consistency, and sometimes uncomfortable adaptation.
At the same time, I was thinking about historical moments when nations or movements had to retreat in order to survive: the American Revolution’s early setbacks, the long withdrawals that preserved armies so they could fight another day. Victory stories are inspiring—but retreat stories are revealing. They expose what a cause is really built on. Patriots in Retreat grew from that intersection: the realization that freedom isn’t won easily. It’s proven in endurance.
In Patriots in Retreat, freedom isn’t framed as a triumphant banner—it’s framed as a burden that forces decisions. The Outworld cause is under pressure, and the characters are repeatedly pushed into situations where every path forward has a price: lives, resources, trust, reputation, and sometimes the comfort of clear moral choices. The book’s tension comes less from grand speeches and more from what freedom demands in the quiet moments—when leaders have to decide what to sacrifice, what lines not to cross, and what kind of future they’re still trying to preserve.
That’s why this is a retreat story: not because the characters stop fighting, but because retreat exposes what you truly value. When you don’t have enough strength to do everything, you find out what you’re willing to protect first—and what you’re willing to lose. Patriots in Retreat keeps returning to the same underlying question: if you pay any price to stay free, do you still end up with freedom… or only survival?
We like to imagine freedom as a clean moral good—something obviously worth having and obviously worth defending. But in reality, freedom competes with comfort, safety, convenience, and the desire for control. When circumstances grow unstable, it becomes tempting to trade liberty for certainty, or to justify harsh measures in the name of survival.
Patriots in Retreat suggests that the true test of freedom isn’t how loudly we celebrate it, but how carefully we protect its character under pressure. Do we still believe in human dignity when resources are scarce? Do we preserve moral limits when fear rises? The story reflects a sobering truth about human nature: the greatest threat to freedom often comes not from an external empire, but from our willingness to abandon our own principles when things get hard.
I’m drawn to stories where freedom is more than a slogan—where it has weight. I’ve learned (often the hard way) that independence isn’t something you achieve once and then coast on. You keep it by paying attention, doing the work, and making the hard choices before the crisis makes them for you. That’s what I wanted this book to feel like: not just the thrill of fighting an empire, but the sobering, hopeful truth that freedom is a cost you keep paying—because the alternative costs more.
Explore the series index for the Sons of the Starfarers series.

Patriots in Retreat is military space opera with a character-driven heart—the kind of book where starship tactics, political pressure, and personal loyalty all collide at once. As the war escalates and options narrow, this installment delivers the experience of trying to stay human while everything forces you into harder choices.
If you love…
…then Patriots in Retreat is probably your kind of story.
Patriots in Retreat follows Captain Mara Soladze and the crew under her command as a widening conflict forces them to make decisions that are tactical on the surface—but personal underneath. Along the way, the book leans into duty vs. conscience, trust under strain, and the cost of keeping people alive when the “right” move is never clean. The result is a fast-moving, pressure-cooker war story that still makes time for character bonds, loyalty, and the psychological weight of command.
Fans of David Weber or Jack Campbell will recognize the pleasure of fleet-level stakes and competent command decisions, but Patriots in Retreat keeps its focus tight on how those decisions land on real people. Where many military sci-fi books lean into victory arcs, this one leans into survival arcs—what it feels like to regroup, retreat, and keep choosing the least-bad option. And because this is Book 6 in Sons of the Starfarers, it also carries the satisfying momentum of a long campaign—without turning into a recap-heavy “maintenance” volume.
You won’t find a jokey, snark-driven tone or a story that treats war like an excuse for spectacle. And while the series has big stakes, this book isn’t built around a standalone “everything resets at the end” structure—it’s part of a continuing war narrative, designed to pull you deeper into the series rather than wrap everything up neatly.
I wrote Patriots in Retreat during a stretch of hard-earned lessons—about patience, about process, and about what it really takes to finish a long series without burning out. That’s part of why this book is so centered on endurance: the kind of courage that isn’t flashy, but keeps showing up anyway. If you’ve ever had to keep moving forward when the plan fell apart—and you still wanted to do it with integrity—I think you’ll recognize something true in this story.
Explore the series index for the Sons of the Starfarers series.
Tim Alberino is a really fascinating guy. It’s like he watched Indiana Jones as a kid, and decided “that’s who I want to be when I grow up.” And then he did!
In this interview, he discusses Biblical giants that the US military may or may not have encountered in Afghanistan (it’s highly classified), Peruvian face peelers, and some other freaky stuff. Really interesting.
This is an excerpt from my poetry collection, Scam Poetry: HAIku, and was written by an AI scambot via personal email. To order your own copy of the full collection, follow the links below.
Readers gather close,
Your words linger in their minds.
December awaits.Five authors stand out,
Your story among the stars,
Will you take your place?December draws near,
A brief word will guide our plans;
Your reply awaited.
These poems demonstrate admirable discipline. The syllables arrive on time. The seasonal reference is consistent. December is named with confidence and returns faithfully, like an automated reminder.
The opening image—“Readers gather close”—suggests intimacy. This is promising. One briefly anticipates a moment of shared warmth against the cold. Regrettably, this gathering exists only to justify anticipation of what comes next. The readers do not linger; they wait.
The repetition of December is especially instructive. In classical haiku, winter often signals withdrawal, quiet, or cessation. Here, December functions as a narrowing corridor. Time does not open; it presses.
The phrase “Five authors stand out” is particularly striking. Numbers rarely intrude so nakedly into haiku. One senses the poet is experimenting boldly with enumeration. The result is… memorable.
It must be acknowledged that the poems exhibit a strong thematic unity. All three arrive at the same emotional posture: expectancy. This consistency is impressive. Consistency is difficult.
However, it is difficult to ignore that nothing in these poems ever truly happens. No snow falls. No breath is taken. No moment completes itself. Each haiku ends as it began—slightly inclined forward, hands politely extended.
One does not feel that the poet has met December. Only that December has been scheduled.
This is understandable. Waiting is uncomfortable. Silence is difficult. Letting the moment pass without extracting value from it requires great patience.
Still, one hesitates to call this haiku.
Rather, these are messages that have learned to stand very still for seventeen syllables.

What happens when you respond to spam emails by asking the AI scambot to write haiku? You get the most unusual poetry collection ever published. Author Joe Vasicek turned the tables on modern email scammers by hijacking their AI agents and transforming their marketing pitches into Japanese poetry. But the experiment took an unexpected turn: when he started sharing ChatGPT's hilariously polite critiques with the scambots, they actually learned to write better haiku. The result is a wild journey from terrible verse to surprisingly genuine poetry, proving that even artificial intelligence can stumble into art when properly trolled.

What does it cost to keep your family safe when your planet is under occupation and war has come to your doorstep? In this character-driven space opera about resistance, family loyalty, and moral responsibility, protection stops being a private instinct and becomes a dangerous, public act. Children of the Starry Sea is built around that question: not whether family is worth protecting—but how much you are willing to risk, lose, or become in order to do it.
I wanted to write a space opera that treated family not as background motivation, but as the central pressure point of the story. Instead of focusing only on fleets and empires, I asked: what does interstellar occupation feel like at the dinner table? In a child’s bedroom? In the split second when a parent has to decide whether to run, hide, resist—or trust? As the opening novel of The Outworld Trilogy, this book establishes the emotional and moral foundation for a larger interstellar conflict that unfolds across the series.
In Children of the Starry Sea, nearly every major decision flows from someone trying to shield the people they love.
Parents take risks they would never take for themselves. They lie, improvise, and step into danger because the alternative is unthinkable. Characters who might otherwise stay cautious find themselves hacking systems, negotiating with enemies, or joining fragile resistance networks—not because they crave heroism, but because someone smaller and more vulnerable depends on them.
But protection isn’t clean. It isn’t just bravery. It comes with tradeoffs. Seeking safety can draw unwanted attention to innocent communities. Rescuing one person may endanger another. Holding your family close may require you to let something else go—status, security, reputation, even pieces of your own identity. The story continually asks whether protecting your own can ever be separated from responsibility toward the wider human family.
That tension—between private love and public consequence—is what drives the emotional core of the novel. The political conflict matters. The empire matters. But what truly raises the stakes is that every strategic move has a face attached to it. A child. A spouse. A parent. The war is never abstract. It is always personal.
At its heart, this theme reflects something deeply human: love makes us brave—but it also makes us vulnerable. The people we cherish most are the very ones who can be used to control or break us. And yet, we keep loving anyway.
Stories about parents protecting children and families holding together under pressure resonate because they mirror our own fears and hopes. We all understand, instinctively, that safety is fragile. That stability can vanish. That sometimes the only thing we truly control is what we are willing to sacrifice for someone else. Children of the Starry Sea suggests that while protection has a cost, love is still worth paying it—because it is the one thing occupation, fear, and violence cannot fully erase. In an era when many readers are drawn to found family stories, resistance narratives, and emotionally grounded science fiction, this theme speaks directly to that hunger for stories where love—not power—is the true source of courage.
When I wrote this book, I was thinking a great deal about responsibility—about what it means to be entrusted with other lives. In the author’s note, I talk about how real-life transitions and uncertainties shaped the emotional undercurrent of the story. I wasn’t interested in writing power fantasy. I wanted to write about burden. About the quiet, relentless weight of trying to do right by the people who depend on you.
For me, Children of the Starry Sea is ultimately about hope that survives fear—not because circumstances are easy, but because love makes endurance possible. It is a family-centered space opera that insists courage begins at home.

Children of the Starry Sea is a character-driven space opera about the cost of protecting your family when an empire takes control of your world. Set on a contested colony and orbiting space station, this second book in The Outworld Trilogy blends political tension, intimate family drama, and high-stakes escape into a story about courage under pressure. This is science fiction that cares as much about parents and children as it does about fleets, invasions, and interstellar power struggles.
If you love…
…then Children of the Starry Sea is probably your kind of story.
Children of the Starry Sea follows Jeremiah, Reva, Mariya, Isaiah, and Salome as their colony and orbital station fall under the control of the Hameji—an expansionist empire determined to enforce submission. Pirates resurface, political negotiations turn coercive, and secret escape plans unfold under constant surveillance. At the same time, the mysterious collective consciousness that binds Reva and Isaac raises urgent questions about identity, assimilation, and belonging. The emotional journey moves from fear and disorientation to quiet resolve and sacrificial courage. The result is a tense but intimate space opera—fast-paced in moments of infiltration and escape, reflective in scenes of family, faith, and moral choice—about standing firm when everything familiar is stripped away.
Fans of traditional military space opera will recognize invasions, political negotiations, and resistance efforts—but this story takes those elements in a deeply personal direction. Where many science fiction invasion stories focus primarily on fleet battles and tactical maneuvers, Children of the Starry Sea leans into the domestic and moral cost of occupation: dinner tables under surveillance, parents negotiating with conquerors, teenagers stepping into adulthood too soon.
Readers who enjoy layered ensemble casts will appreciate the shifting perspectives between parents, children, and outsiders—especially the unique thread of the collective consciousness that shapes Reva and Isaac’s storyline. Instead of framing assimilation as pure horror, the novel explores belonging, identity, and agency in unexpected ways, making it both intellectually and emotionally distinctive within modern indie space opera. Where many science fiction stories treat hive minds as purely monstrous, this novel explores collective consciousness as both gift and danger—complicating the usual invasion narrative with questions of agency, consent, and chosen belonging.
You won’t find grimdark nihilism, graphic brutality, or cynical antiheroes. While the stakes are high and the threat is real, this is not a hopeless dystopia. Violence has consequences, and moral choices matter. If you’re looking for relentless darkness or shock-value storytelling, this may not be the right fit.
This story matters to me because it explores something I think science fiction doesn’t always take seriously enough: the quiet, daily courage of families under pressure. At its heart, Children of the Starry Sea is about parents learning when to protect and when to let go, about teenagers stepping into adulthood too soon, and about holding onto faith and identity when larger powers try to define your future for you. Finishing this novel required persistence and trust—much like the characters themselves must learn. If you care about science fiction where family is central rather than incidental, I think this book will stay with you.
Freedom isn’t the ability to choose whatever you want, Isaiah. It’s the freedom to choose what is right.
Children of the Starry Sea by Joe Vasicek