Parallax
|
click for an audio sample
|
There is fortune to be made across the stars. If it doesn't kill him first.
When Deadeye, a hotshot space jockey, is captured by pirates, he decides to join the motley group called the Redshift Runners. Maybe they can help him get rich.
These Runners aren’t typical interstellar bandits, however. They risk their lives delivering food and supplies to starving colonies in the outer rim.
Deadeye gains the favor of their captain, Talon, a driven woman whose schemes will lead them to the ancient boundary separating the colonies from mythical Earth—and guarded by Parallax, a mysterious effect that renders the area unnavigable.
Yet the cost of traveling the stars exacts a heavy toll. Due to the mental link with their ships, jockeys gradually lose their memories…and Deadeye risks forgetting everything to satisfy Talon’s ambitions.
When Deadeye, a hotshot space jockey, is captured by pirates, he decides to join the motley group called the Redshift Runners. Maybe they can help him get rich.
These Runners aren’t typical interstellar bandits, however. They risk their lives delivering food and supplies to starving colonies in the outer rim.
Deadeye gains the favor of their captain, Talon, a driven woman whose schemes will lead them to the ancient boundary separating the colonies from mythical Earth—and guarded by Parallax, a mysterious effect that renders the area unnavigable.
Yet the cost of traveling the stars exacts a heavy toll. Due to the mental link with their ships, jockeys gradually lose their memories…and Deadeye risks forgetting everything to satisfy Talon’s ambitions.
A YouTube Music playlist that contains tracks I listened to while writing PARALLAX, called 'Spacer's Dreams'.
Parallax: Excerpt
Another body floated past the cracked viewport and Deadeye gave it the finger. It was his ship’s captain. The shattered faceplate revealed swollen features caused by a loss of atmospheric pressure. The guy had been a jerk ever since Deadeye took the piloting contract, and now he would probably die with him.
They could have escaped the pirates if he’d let Deadeye make a second jump. Yet the man had been stubborn and arrogant, like most MEC captains—a deadlier combination than torpedoes fitted with nuclear warheads. While the ship trembled around him, Deadeye searched for a spare thrustpack in the airlock chamber. Of course, there were none because his now-deceased captain had thought it better to give them all to the mercenaries onboard. The mercenaries who should have repelled the pirate boarding party. Now their bodies floated with the captain.
That’s what he got for working with MEC. Sure, they controlled most colonies across the Orion Spur, the pay was good, and they seemed to appreciate the skills of an Uzari veteran like himself, but he was expendable. He should have been used to that by now.
He whistled one of the silly romance songs Homesteaders played on their radio streams. It always had helped him think back when he flew dropships in the MEC navy.
Back when he’d had a real name, not just a callsign.
Sure, he could change it. Pick a new moniker from random, or pay an identity broker at the next spaceport to forge a new name for him. He could even pretend it was real and that he hadn’t forgotten most of his past due to flying ships through wormholes.
Though he had not lost his will to survive or forgotten to live every moment like it was his last. Even an animal knew it didn’t want to die. He whistled louder as a wrench floated above its smashed toolbox. The ship’s centrifuge had stopped working, and the artificial gravity was gone.
His magnetic soles kept him attached to the deck, but Deadeye had a choice. It was going out there to pry a thrustpack from a dead mercenary or wait for the pirates to find him. He knew he couldn’t escape even if he found a thrustpack, but it seemed like a better way to die. He could open his faceplate and get it over with since the hull had been breached with railgun fire, but he wanted to see how far he could make it. That’s something a pilot never lost, no matter how many memories faded. Push that envelope.
An “Abandon Ship” alarm sounded over Deadeye’s helmet speakers, and the accompanying emergency info scrolled down his faceplate HUD, but he ignored them and pulled the airlock’s manual release lever.
It didn’t work.
Damn it.
He wasn’t surprised. Not much had worked on Santo Pohl beforehand, and now that a pirate’s railgun round had shredded through its central power router, nothing did. Judging from the limited damage, it must have been a 75mm shot fired by a skilled gunner. As long as the ship’s stardrive remained intact and the hull maintained at least 80% structural integrity, the pirates could still make off with their prize. Anything less, and the vessel would come apart when making a jump.
Deadeye checked his boots, smiled in resignation, and kicked out the broken viewport. It gave way easily. Tinted glass shards drifted away into the void. One more kick and the framing caved in, creating a large hole for him to crawl out of.
Get out there. Find a dead merc. Take their thrustpack.
It was better than no plan at all. Pirates usually killed their captives or sold them to Lineage nobles as slaves. Deadeye preferred his chances out there. Maybe he’d use the thrustpack, jet himself into the pirate vessel, and stow aboard. It’d be at least a year before a MEC patrol detected Santo Pohl’s radio distress beacon and investigated; the nearest convoy route was a light-year away. Another reason to get moving.
He whistled the song again. .
“We know you’re in there,” a woman said over his helmet speakers.
They could have escaped the pirates if he’d let Deadeye make a second jump. Yet the man had been stubborn and arrogant, like most MEC captains—a deadlier combination than torpedoes fitted with nuclear warheads. While the ship trembled around him, Deadeye searched for a spare thrustpack in the airlock chamber. Of course, there were none because his now-deceased captain had thought it better to give them all to the mercenaries onboard. The mercenaries who should have repelled the pirate boarding party. Now their bodies floated with the captain.
That’s what he got for working with MEC. Sure, they controlled most colonies across the Orion Spur, the pay was good, and they seemed to appreciate the skills of an Uzari veteran like himself, but he was expendable. He should have been used to that by now.
He whistled one of the silly romance songs Homesteaders played on their radio streams. It always had helped him think back when he flew dropships in the MEC navy.
Back when he’d had a real name, not just a callsign.
Sure, he could change it. Pick a new moniker from random, or pay an identity broker at the next spaceport to forge a new name for him. He could even pretend it was real and that he hadn’t forgotten most of his past due to flying ships through wormholes.
Though he had not lost his will to survive or forgotten to live every moment like it was his last. Even an animal knew it didn’t want to die. He whistled louder as a wrench floated above its smashed toolbox. The ship’s centrifuge had stopped working, and the artificial gravity was gone.
His magnetic soles kept him attached to the deck, but Deadeye had a choice. It was going out there to pry a thrustpack from a dead mercenary or wait for the pirates to find him. He knew he couldn’t escape even if he found a thrustpack, but it seemed like a better way to die. He could open his faceplate and get it over with since the hull had been breached with railgun fire, but he wanted to see how far he could make it. That’s something a pilot never lost, no matter how many memories faded. Push that envelope.
An “Abandon Ship” alarm sounded over Deadeye’s helmet speakers, and the accompanying emergency info scrolled down his faceplate HUD, but he ignored them and pulled the airlock’s manual release lever.
It didn’t work.
Damn it.
He wasn’t surprised. Not much had worked on Santo Pohl beforehand, and now that a pirate’s railgun round had shredded through its central power router, nothing did. Judging from the limited damage, it must have been a 75mm shot fired by a skilled gunner. As long as the ship’s stardrive remained intact and the hull maintained at least 80% structural integrity, the pirates could still make off with their prize. Anything less, and the vessel would come apart when making a jump.
Deadeye checked his boots, smiled in resignation, and kicked out the broken viewport. It gave way easily. Tinted glass shards drifted away into the void. One more kick and the framing caved in, creating a large hole for him to crawl out of.
Get out there. Find a dead merc. Take their thrustpack.
It was better than no plan at all. Pirates usually killed their captives or sold them to Lineage nobles as slaves. Deadeye preferred his chances out there. Maybe he’d use the thrustpack, jet himself into the pirate vessel, and stow aboard. It’d be at least a year before a MEC patrol detected Santo Pohl’s radio distress beacon and investigated; the nearest convoy route was a light-year away. Another reason to get moving.
He whistled the song again. .
“We know you’re in there,” a woman said over his helmet speakers.
