There’s a moment in Operation Starward where the main character, Cole, sits in the cockpit of a craft that shouldn’t exist—something alive, something other—and for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s flying it. He feels like it’s waiting to know him.
That’s the moment the book cracked open for me, too.
I’ve always loved science fiction, especially the kind that asks more questions than it answers. I grew up half in love with the stars and half obsessed with the weird late-night AM radio frequencies that kept me company when the rest of the world was asleep. I’m talking Coast to Coast AM. I’m talking Bob Lazar interviews, Tic Tac footage, and old VHS tapes labeled “UNEXPLAINED.” I ate that stuff up with a side of freeze-dried astronaut ice cream.
But I’m also a queer guy—more masc than femme, raised under the shadow of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and the myth that strength has to come without softness. And I think part of why Operation Starward happened at all was because I never really saw my kind of story in the intersection between those two obsessions: the sky and queerness.
Writing Queerness Into the Stars
Let’s be honest—sci-fi isn’t always kind to queer people. We’re either absent, tragic, or hyper-sexualized. Rarely central. Rarely complicated. And even less often allowed to have joy. So I wanted to write something that broke that mold—not with fanfare, but with precision.
Operation Starward is the story of Cole Mercer, a military pilot with a stiff jaw, a locked-down heart, and a soul he’s not sure he owns anymore. He’s loyal, he’s sharp, and he’s quietly falling apart. What makes him queer isn’t just his sexuality—it’s his relationship to intimacy, to vulnerability, to the idea that connection might be a kind of strength, not a liability.
Cole’s arc doesn’t follow the typical coming-out narrative. He’s already been out. He’s already loved—and lost—someone named Reese, whose voice still echoes in the space between every mission. What Cole is learning isn’t how to be queer, but how to let love survive the sharp edges of duty.
And honestly? That felt like the most honest kind of queer story I could tell. One rooted in masculinity, but not trapped by it. One shaped by military structure, but not defined by loyalty to systems that refuse to see your whole self.
When Patriotism Meets Queerness
One of the most personal tensions in this book is the friction between patriotism, queerness, and family—and how those lines get blurred when you’re a queer person in uniform.
I wanted to explore the idea that loyalty can be a beautiful thing—but it can also become a cage. Cole serves because he’s good at it, because he was trained for it, and because there’s a kind of comfort in following orders. But underneath that obedience is a deep grief: for the family who doesn’t fully understand him, for the love he sacrificed for the mission, and for the part of himself that wonders if he’s ever going to be allowed to belong—anywhere.
When he enters the Atlas Program—a black-budget project involving telepathic alien craft and interspecies co-pilots—that grief doesn’t go away. But it does begin to reshape. Because the alien technology doesn’t require conformity. It requires intimacy.
The ships respond to thought, resonance, vulnerability. They don’t fly unless they trust you—and they don’t trust you unless you let them see who you really are.
It’s the exact opposite of how Cole’s world has worked until now.
A Queer Spin on UFO Lore
Let’s talk about the flying saucers for a second.
As a self-described UFO nerd (and yes, I say that with my whole chest), writing this book was also my love letter to the rich, weird, and often dismissed legacy of UFO lore. From the Nimitz encounters to the Phoenix Lights, I wanted to pull from real cases and conspiracy whispers—but without turning them into cheap spectacle.
The alien species in Operation Starward, the Noryths, are inspired by classic “gray alien” archetypes—but instead of leaning into fear or mystique, I asked: What if they weren’t conquerors or enigmas? What if they were… deeply curious?
What if they didn’t want to study us or save us—but to partner with us? What if the ships weren’t machines, but extensions of consciousness?
That’s where the Thyrix-class ships came from—sentient vessels that require emotional resonance to operate. They don’t run on fuel. They run on knowing.
And that was my queer spin. Because what better metaphor for queer intimacy than the idea that in order to really move, to really soar, you have to let someone see you? No armor. No cockpit. Just thought. Just trust.
Thematic Core: Resonance, Not Reaction
When I talk about the themes that anchor this story, I keep coming back to one word: resonance.
Here are the top 5 themes/vibes that shaped this book:
- Queer yearning in a world built for silence
— Longing, not loud declarations. Glances. Memories. The ache of what might’ve been, wrapped in the possibility of what still could be. - Found connection through vulnerability
— The ships don’t fly on swagger. They fly on honesty. Emotional fluency is survival here. - Masculinity redefined through softness
— Cole’s strength isn’t in how tough he is. It’s in how much he cares, even when it hurts. - The collision of secrecy and truth
— Whether it’s government secrets or personal ones, this story is about what happens when walls collapse. - Cosmic wonder from a queer lens
— This isn’t just aliens and lasers. This is about what happens when you let yourself believe the universe might actually have a place for you.
For Readers Who Love…
If you’re into books that blend atmospheric sci-fi with emotional intimacy, Operation Starward is your jam. Think:
- If you love Becky Chambers’ emotional architecture, but wish it had more black ops and unresolved sexual tension…
- If you devoured Nina Varela’s slow-burn queer politics in space…
- If you always wanted Arrival to lean gayer…
…then you’ll find something here.
Why It Matters
This book is for the queer reader who grew up loving stars but never saw themselves in the cockpit.
It’s for the person who knows that sometimes love isn’t loud—but it still saves you.
It’s for the quiet strength, the steady pilot, the one who never cried in uniform but thought about it more than they’ll admit.
It’s for anyone who ever thought, Maybe the aliens would understand me better than my own country does.
Final Thoughts
Writing Operation Starward let me combine the things I’ve always loved—sci-fi tech, alien contact theory, military thrillers—with the parts of myself I used to hide. It gave me a space (pun very intended) to let queerness be powerful, not just painful. To let love feel like flight, not just fallout.
And most of all, it let me write a story where the stars weren’t just scenery.
They were invitation.
-Ryder
Operation Starward is available for pre-order
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