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The Proverbial Crock Pot
Space Station Halcyon follows a middle-aged gambler coerced into managing a derelict space station as he faces both mob pressure and a doomed government inspection. Where did the idea behind this story come from?
Hoo boy. Bits and pieces fell into the proverbial crock pot over the course of a few weeks. Daryl the manatee came from an awkward encounter I once had with a real life manatee in a beach bar (I don’t want to talk about it). Hali the AI was inspired by that time Chat GPT made me cry (for reasons I’ve now totally forgotten). Joey is basically a better version of me, but also a raging alcoholic.
All of this marinated for a few weeks in a midlife crisis, and voila! Space Station Halcyon was served!
Do you think comedy makes violence hit harder, or softens it?
Comedy is like the soothing back rub on the tense shoulders of deadly violence. It should be used lovingly, sparingly. Otherwise, it’s just a nuisance.
Do you see the station as a kind of found family, even if it’s a dysfunctional one?
The station is more like a high security cell block of felons who are so socially stunted, so painfully outcast, they need an AI to prompt them not to kill each other. So, yeah, they’re just like family.
What kind of reader do you hope finds this book?
The kind who will buy lots and lots of copies of my book and sprinkle them freely about their favorite watering holes, fitness centers, and places of worship.
Author Website
(Management is not responsible for anything that happens to you)
Joey Mumbai’s down on his luck and over his head. To pay off his gambling debts, he’s forced to run an old space station at the end of the galaxy as a “legitimate business” for the mob. All Joey has to do is make money—and not attract any attention. But Space Station Halcyon is like a floating death trap, with a rage-filled manatee, a psychotically cheerful computer, and a sports bar that may or may not be possessed.
When a government code inspector and her enforcerbot drop by the station, Joey must bluff, bribe, and connive his way through interstellar bureaucracy, laser gun fights, and the worst beer in the galaxy. Can Joey turn his derelict station and degenerate crew into something resembling legality? Or is the whole place going to explode in a cloud of code violations? Or maybe both?
Space Station Halcyon is a wild and raucous sci-fi comedy about bad luck, worse decisions, and the cosmic horror of being put in charge. A Hitchhiker’s Guide-esque romp that answers the eternal question: “Who’s in charge around here?”
Space Station Halcyon: “Now Under New Management!”
Space Station Halcyon opens with Joey Mumbai, a middle-aged gambler with a gift for wisecracks and a talent for catastrophe, getting dragooned by a murderous insectoid bookie into running the derelict space station he inherited from his father. What follows is a comic scramble involving mob pressure, an impending government inspection, a gloriously ramshackle station orbiting a planet called Cold Fart, and a crew that seems stitched together from grievance, loyalty, and leftover cosmic grease. It is, in essence, a novel about a loser walking into the worst management job in the galaxy and finding that the dump may have more soul than he does.
I liked this book most when it trusted its own lunacy. Author Matthew C. Lucas does not write jokes as decorative garnish; he writes as if comedy were the station’s oxygen supply. The voice is fast, filthy, self-lacerating, and weirdly nimble, with similes that arrive half-drunk and still land cleanly. Joey’s narration gives the book its voltage: he is slippery, vain, frightened, opportunistic, and yet difficult not to root for. I enjoyed the way the novel lets absurdity and menace coexist in the same breath. A scene can pivot from a strangling to a punchline without feeling coy about either one. That tonal brazenness is harder to pull off than it looks, and here it gives the whole book a scrappy combustion.
What surprised me was that beneath the racket, there is a real emotional undertow. The station is not just a joke-machine; it gradually feels like a cracked habitat for disappointment, inheritance, and accidental belonging. Joey’s relationship to the place, and to the people and entities orbiting within it, gives the comedy a ballast it would not otherwise have. I would not call the novel sentimental, because it has too much bite for that, but it does become unexpectedly tender in the margins. Even when the humor turns maximalist, the book keeps a grubby human pulse. It is worth noing that readers who dislike relentless comic velocity may find it a bit overclocked. Still, I found the excess more often exhilarating than exhausting.
I’d hand Space Station Halcyon to readers who like comic science fiction, space opera farce, absurdist sci-fi, and blue-collar galactic satire, especially people who enjoy shabby worlds, hostile bureaucracies, and characters who fail with style. It sits somewhere between Douglas Adams and Futurama, though Lucas is earthier and more splenetic than Adams, with less elegance and more grime under the fingernails. For the right reader, this is exactly the kind of novel that feels beamed in from a disreputable but beloved corner of the universe. A battered little chaos-engine of a book: vulgar, funny, and far more endearing than I thought it would be.
Pages: 194 | ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0GJ7GCSHF
