Alien Velocity
Authors: Robert Appleton
Alien Velocity
By Robert Appleton
Charlie Thorpe-Campbell is the greatest RAM-runner the world has ever seen—and he knows it. On the verge of retirement from the sport, he is defending his title as champion of the annual orbital race one final time when he’s suddenly hurtling away into deep space.
Charlie’s unscheduled voyage through a wormhole ends with a crash-landing on a most unusual planet, with scores of spacecraft from all corners of the universe in orbit. Seeking help, he heads toward what appears to be civilization, unaware of the horrors waiting for him there…
Once inside the great, orb-covered city, Charlie is thrust into intergalactic competition by a bloodthirsty alien race. When he discovers he can use his unique abilities to save not only himself, but the entire galaxy, will he face up to the challenge—or run from it?
Previously published as
Charlie Runs Rings Around the Earth,
newly revised by the author.
39,000 words
Dear Reader,
It’s hard to get excited about the month of March. The weather in this part of the world isn’t quite spring, and if it’s still cold, can make a long winter feel even longer. There are no fun holidays to look forward to except the green beer, corned beef and cabbage of St. Patrick’s Day, and the school season is at a point where the kids are starting to whine about having to wake up in the morning and go.
That’s why I’m excited about our 2012 March releases at Carina Press. The variety and excellence of the stories give us a reason to anticipate and enjoy the month of March! The rich diversity of these books promises a fantastic reading month at Carina.
Kicking off the month is mystery author Shirley Wells, returning with her popular Dylan Scott Mystery series. Joining her book
Silent Witness
at the beginning of March is BDSM erotic romance
Forbidden Fantasies
by Jodie Griffin; Christine Danse’s paranormal romance
Beauty in the Beast;
and a romantic steampunk gothic horror that’s like no steampunk you’ve ever read,
Heart of Perdition
by Selah March.
Later in the month, fans of Cindy Spencer Pape will be glad to see her return with another paranormal romance installment,
Motor City Mage,
while Janis Susan May returns with another creepy gothic mystery,
Inheritance of Shadows.
Historical romance lovers will be more than pleased with
A Kiss in the Wind,
Jennifer Bray-Weber’s inaugural Carina Press release.
I expect new Carina Press authors Joan Kilby, Gillian Archer and Nicole Luiken will gain faithful followings with their books:
Gentlemen Prefer Nerds,
an entertaining contemporary romance;
Wicked Weekend,
a sexy and sweet BDSM erotic romance; and
Gate to Kandrith,
the first of a fantasy duology that features wonderful world-building. Meanwhile, returning Carina authors Robert Appleton and Carol Stephenson do what they do best: continue to capture readers’ imaginations. Grab a copy of science-fiction space opera
Alien Velocity
and hot romantic suspense
Her Dark Protector.
Rounding out the month, we have an entire week of releases from some of today’s hottest authors in m/m romance, as well as some newcomers to the genre. Ava March kicks off her entertaining and hot m/m historical romance trilogy with
Brook Street: Thief
. Look for the other two books in the trilogy,
Brook Street: Fortune Hunter
and
Brook Street: Rogue,
in April and May 2012. Erastes, who can always be counted on to deliver a compelling, well-researched historical, gives us m/m paranormal historical romance
A Brush with Darkness,
and science-fiction author Kim Knox makes her debut in the m/m genre with her sci-fi romance
Bitter Harvest.
KC Burn gives us the stunning m/m contemporary romance
First Time, Forever.
Joining them are new Carina Press authors Dev Bentham, with a sweet, heartfelt m/m romance,
Moving in Rhythm,
and Larry Benjamin with his terrific debut novel, m/m romance
What Binds Us.
As you can see, March comes in like a lion but will not go out like a lamb. All month long we offer powerful stories from our talented authors. I hope you enjoy them as much as we have!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
www.twitter.com/carinapress
www.facebook.com/carinapress
Thanks to Nerine for all her hard work in getting Charlie race-fit, and to Deb for her expert coaching and finesse. No adventure ever had better preparation.
I’d also like to thank Brit for the kind encouragement at a time when support was scarce. I could have bowed out after one lap, but you helped me find my second wind…and
Alien Velocity.
Slowly. Breathe in, blow out. Repeat.
No use.
Waiting in limbo before hitting the limelight was just too nerve-racking. Race day was funny like that, always had been, Charlie decided. Hell, he could happily make a complete ass of himself 24/7 on camera, but this anticipation, this space, this self-inquisition in the quiet moments, gnawed deep inside.
“How long now?”
He’d often thrown up in the toilet or jogged laps of the gymnasium track right up until the very last minute before his pre-race interview. Those methods seemed to work best. Once, he’d even asked his masseuse to rub him into relaxation on the gantry above the space dock, one door away from the audience and infamy, yet all it had achieved was sending him to sleep—a definite no-no before starring in the biggest sporting event on Earth’s calendar.
The Tonne Run.
He zipped his sapphire tracksuit jacket up to the collar, unzipped it, then quickly wriggled it off. Too bloody hot. But how could it be? The temperature in the space dock was measured as carefully as a cup of warm sake. The aluminium gangway rattled under his feet when laughter erupted from the audience below. Who was on before him? Probably Wills or Forrester, one of the jokers. He stretched his arms behind his head, one at a time, before jogging on the spot.
Thunderous applause heaved through him. Between forefinger and thumb, he rubbed the brass locket dangling over his sternum, not thinking of his father’s picture inside.
The door opened and a mountain of a man stepped through, holding it ajar. “You ready, sir?” The man’s raspy whisper sounded sore.
“Yup.”
“Okay, in you come, Mr. Thorpe-Campbell.”
The half-mile-long space hangar exploded when he crept out, his tremble exciting him with effervescent pride, his self-doubts immediately evaporating to the silver-ribbed, transparent dome ceiling. Vibrations in the platform zapped energy into his shins, tickling. The storm of white camera flashes left a hundred pockmarks on his vision. To his right, the stunning redheaded figure of Marley O’Rourke made him think of whipped cream and Bailey’s Irish liqueur. Her skin-tight jumpsuit was beige and white. Her toothy smile and hazel eyes beamed with high wattage. For a moment, he felt like the luckiest guy on Earth.
“What?” He glanced down to a nib of red light tracing its way over the starting gates, and the easygoing blue-and-white planet many miles below. He scoffed. “Earth is for amateurs.”
“And now, it’s my great pleasure to introduce the reigning world champion RAM-runner, undefeated in eight years in the Tonne, the four-time orbital record holder, and the cutest Englishman ever to wear blue.” Miss O’Rourke broke protocol to give him a quick kiss on the lips—for the crowd—but his exuberance got the better of him and soon the kiss became epic, passionate, and his hands were all over her. Wolf whistles, laughter, applause blazed from below. When it was over, she fanned her face with her hands and had to compose herself. “Ladies and gentlemen, Charles Thorpe-Campbell.”
He waved and waited for the applause to settle.
“So tell us, how are you feeling right now, less than an hour before launch?” Miss O’Rourke asked.
“Do I need to show you again? Okay, you’re on.” Charlie leaned her back for a full, dizzying kiss they both knew overstepped the bounds of decency for a live interplanetary broadcast. Only the chain of his pendant snagging in her hair stopped him.
“I-I’d say you’re firing on all cylinders,” she said.
He struck a victorious pose for the screaming audience before settling them with the command of a caesar. The sickle-shaped scar just below his right elbow itched madly. He banished the thought of his girlfriend Sorcha watching at home. She’d threatened to leave him once too often and right now, being here, feeling the adulation of an entire planet, was more important.
“Eight times? Tell me, is this déjà vu or destiny?” he said. “This morning I woke bog-eyed and ready to turn the alarm clock off—go right back to bed and sleep this one out. I thought, ‘You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You could retire right now and still be the greatest RAM-runner the world has ever seen.’ But then I watched the sun rise over the curve of the earth and realised—this is my domain. Out here, at the limits of endurance, at speeds the human eye can barely see—this is where I belong. Today you’ve heard upstarts from every country tell you they’re going to smash my record, blah-blah-blah, and that I’m over the hill.” He grinned. “Well, over the hill is all downhill, and that’s where top speeds are reached by the best. Space is the race and Charlie Thorpe-Campbell says,
Let’s race!
”
The crowd’s reaction was ecstatic. Even Charlie had to check his footing to make sure the vibration hadn’t dislodged anything on the gridiron platform. Beyond the thousands of fans, two dozen referees checked their way through a series of security points, using everything from key cards to DNA and blood identifiers on their way to the starting gates. The revolutions on antimatter vehicles had been checked and re-checked for weeks whilst in dock. This was to be the final scrutiny for each before a full diagnostic in the hour before launch. After that, only the athlete would be allowed access to his vehicle. Charlie tried to make out his own RAM-racer, the
Bluebird,
glistening in the unfiltered sunlight, but one of the dome’s giant steel ribs obscured it.
“We still have a few minutes left,” Miss O’Rourke said. “How about a few questions from the fans for Mr. Thorpe-Campbell?”
He nodded. The spectators studied their electronic wristbands. Each had been assigned a number, and the lottery for the first question had now begun. Whoever’s wristband flashed amber had the microphone and a dream come true.
Screams surrounded an elderly black lady wearing a green two-piece.
“First up, we have Eva Renault from New Orleans,” Miss O’Rourke read from her monitor. “What would you like to ask, Eva?”
“I’d like to ask Charlie what he thinks about most just before he races.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “What a marvellous question, Eva. I tell you, what I said earlier about racing being my destiny, that it’s what I’m supposed to be doing, well, that might come across as flippant, you know, war talk before launch and all that, but it’s an old, old truth about my family. We’ve been among the fastest men and women alive for centuries. My ancestors held the world land and water speed records as far back as the mid-twentieth century. Generations later there was Edie Thorpe—fastest single-engine slingshot around the moon. My father, Reginald Thorpe-Campbell, broke the solar system land speed record nine times on Europa before his crash. His craft was also named
Bluebird.
So you see, I have a lot to be proud of, and a lot to think about, just before I race. Thank you, Eva.”
Despite the generous applause, Charlie regretted bringing up the memory of his father’s crash so close to the launch. He fingered the pendant once more, hiding his scowl behind a stiff, stitched-on smile even Marley O’Rourke, standing less than two feet away, her fading perfume and bubblegum funkiness caressing his nostrils, could perceive. He knew the memory would hit him hard when he least wanted it—probably just before launch—and that he’d have to grit his teeth even more when the moment arrived. This was no time for wallowing. It was time to run, and to run faster than ever before.
He was thirty-three. The world was gaining.
“And next we have…Yun Kim from China. Fire away, Yun.”
A brief pause while the young man in sunglasses cleared his throat. “It’s an honour to meet you, Mr. Thorpe-Campbell.” The high-pitched, boyish enthusiasm didn’t last. “I was wondering what you have to say about the much-publicised illegal working conditions on Mars, the polar mining operations, where poor health and safety is costing the lives of dozens of men and women a week. I find it odd that you, sir, on such an important day, see fit to parade the name of a…criminal corporation on your
Bluebird.
Was the sponsorship money that substantial? Have you really no morals, as has been suggested in the past?”
Hmm. Exactly what Sorcha had said to him all those months ago, when he’d first signed the deal with Latigo. Of course, she’d known how to cut him personally with her objections. He could handle a little dissent from an upstart piece of work he’d never met.
The undercurrent of jeers and boos was not as pointed as Charlie had hoped. He had some fast peddling to do before the race. “As I’ve said before, Mr. Kim, professional sport should always be apolitical. We athletes compete against one another on a single basis—to be the best at what we do. It’s pure. It’s tradition. It should not be embroiled in corporate mudslinging or political squabbling. If RAM-running represents anything, it’s the desire for excellence at a level above and beyond the problems of the world below. When I’m not running, I have my own political views and concerns, but they never, I repeat, never follow me onto the track. All of my fellow runners are sponsored by major corporations, and I assure you we would not be here without them. So accuse whoever you like of whatever you like, Mr. Kim, but what Latigo Enterprises does on Mars is between them and the Martian authorities, not you and I, here in this great arena, on this day of days.”
Muted applause—again not the passionate support he’d counted on.
“Well said, sir.” At least Marley O’Rourke was on Charlie’s side, if only for the cameras. “I think there’s time for one more question. And we have…Rachel McEerie from Scotland. It’s all yours, Rachel.”
The girl looked about eighteen. Blonde, curvy, pale as a fresh top layer of snow, she held her flashing wristband close to her mouth. Charlie wanted to see drool, hear simpering teenage declarations of love, anything but another swipe at his scruples.
She wasted no time. “You just said sportsmen shouldn’t be embroiled in what Latigo gets up to, and yet you’ve plastered their logo all over the
Bluebird
—inside and out. Are you so deluded that you can’t see the damage you’re doing to those miners on Mars? For Christ’s sake, that whole spiel you just gave about the strive for perfection is going to glorify Latigo every time the camera shows their logo in the same frame as you, for the next few hours. And that doesn’t bother you? There’s no such thing as abstinence in sport, Mr. Thorpe-Campbell. There can’t be. Not while you’re helping promote a country or a corporation by wilfully taking part in their ambitions. You’re either a villain or an idiot. Which one is it?”
More boos and jeers, but also a smattering of laughter.
Where was his shotgun when he needed it? Her once-in-a-lifetime chance to let him flatter himself a little before a big race, and the miniskirt had showed cheek instead! Just one shot, he thought, right between the eyes. Unbelievable! If this weren’t being broadcast to five planets, there’d now be Scottish blancmange where the McEerie girl stood. On race day of all days! The absolute nerve.
“A villain or an idiot, eh? You’ve spent too much time listening to my fellow racers, Ms. Easy. And I wonder how much you’ve been paid to say these things before the biggest race of the year. Like I’ve said ’til I’m blue in the face, a RAM-runner orbits Earth for a reason. It’s the purest expression of man’s pursuit of excellence. There’s no pollution up here, no wars, no natural disasters and, until now, no misinformed political sniping. You see, there can be abstinence in sport—as I am proudly about to prove. When I win this race, it won’t be for Latigo or Devereux or England or China or anyone else. It will be for Charlie Thorpe-Campbell and his great family heritage of speed. There’s nothing purer than that. Thank you all, and I’ll see you on the finish line. Go
Bluebird!
”
Adrenaline flushed up through his chest until his eyes watered. The cheering grew thunderous and feverish. He stormed out through the door, hate soon shoving him into a defiant jog down the shiny corridor. He spat “Morons!” through clenched teeth. “Goddamn ungrateful…they’ve no idea how fast… The world’s gonna burn in my wake. The whole goddamn world. That’s a promise. You sons of bitches.”
* * *
At least his quiet fury had kissed goodbye to any nerves. His fingertips throbbed at every security checkpoint as though wired to an angry pacemaker. Adrenaline—that was the thing now—a pint of froth at the starting gate before a potent shot of Sun Tzu. These were the moments when a race was won or lost, in the dock before the starting blaze. Charlie clenched his fists and strolled nonchalantly through the final sliding doors. The air in the outer dock was tender with jet fumes and the deodorant sublimed by runners already assembled at their vehicles. Magnifi-scent. He turned, caught his ghostly reflection in the screen doors between himself and three thousand madding race fans. Intimate and distant at the same time, still revered, Charlie was as trim and clean-cut as he had been eight years ago, still five-eleven, same mousy brown hair, uncombed, with short back and sides. Same blue-grey eyes, the left still lazier than the right. He turned for a sideways pose and tried to ignore the distant wolf whistles from the crowd. Yes, he still looked good. No, he didn’t mind wearing short shorts and a T-shirt when all the other runners wore skin-tight body suits. Hell no, it felt delightfully idiosyncratic, and was a big, Luddite “up yours” to the robo-jocks with their artificial R&D enhancements.
He had to laugh. They all took it so seriously…as if they had a chance in hell of beating him. From left to right across the five hundred yards of faded grey metal, all manner of upstarts were about to be downsized. There were twenty-one RAM-runners in all. Some he recognised from the newscasts. Barnaby “Chill” Wills, the big American, had his
Pennsylvania 6-5000
. There was the small but sleek
Hokkaido Bullet
piloted by a Japanese. Duke Forrester from Malta, in his prototype
Shit Off A Shovel,
was a lightning finisher—one of Charlie’s oldest rivals. Coriander Moran from Australia was the bookies’ hot wingman to Charlie’s short-odds lead, and he was already a shirtless pin-up in his
Deep Space Dolphin
. Sebastian Mbomba had run a mile in three minutes in his home country, Namibia, but space was a long way from home, and his
Flying Carpet
looked a little the worse for wear.
