Termination Vector
Now privateers rather than criminals, the Redshift Runners protect Earth and its colonies from pirates...
Until trade routes are attacked by the unmanned fleets of the Prestige, the former protectors of ancient Earth. Though the deadly raids threaten the stability Deadeye and Talon have sacrificed so much to achieve, they discover its true purpose: an operation code-named Termination Vector, which has targeted the Runners for destruction.
Old enemies reappear in a bid for power, abusing the very technology that has allowed humanity to settle the stars. Deadeye and his shipmates must gather their allies to confront the marauding fleets in a battle for the future of the Orion Spur.
But the cost might be more than they can bear.
Until trade routes are attacked by the unmanned fleets of the Prestige, the former protectors of ancient Earth. Though the deadly raids threaten the stability Deadeye and Talon have sacrificed so much to achieve, they discover its true purpose: an operation code-named Termination Vector, which has targeted the Runners for destruction.
Old enemies reappear in a bid for power, abusing the very technology that has allowed humanity to settle the stars. Deadeye and his shipmates must gather their allies to confront the marauding fleets in a battle for the future of the Orion Spur.
But the cost might be more than they can bear.
TERMINATION VECTOR is available in multiple formats from Aethon Books.
Excerpt
Nothing remained of the settler convoy but drifting scrap. Deadeye went numb. He checked the radar feed again.
Foyle’s Folly detected no other craft in their vicinity. Its bow scopes revealed a smattering of debris surrounding the derelicts: seats, crates, and an egress ladder. A bulkhead lined with crayon drawings.
A small form in a jumpsuit, still clutching a plush bear.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
“What the actual fuck?” Slushie asked, flying One-Eyed Jack two kilometers off his starboard. “Dead Man, somebody already punked this convoy, we need to—”
“I know.”
He flew closer and scanned again. Still nothing.
They had arrived at the rendezvous point in Kruger 60, five AU from the larger of the system’s twin red dwarf suns. At thirteen light-years from Earth, it was a key location among the Spur’s spinward jump lanes. Talon had instructed them to meet the convoy, escort it to Barnard’s Star, and turn it over to the MEC fleet waiting there for further escort to Sol. He’d flown the same mission, on the same route, four times in a row. Harpy activity had been hot in the area, but slacked off after he and Slushie had destroyed one of their squadrons two weeks ago.
“Hey, you seeing the damage to those ships?” she asked. “Waaay more than Meccer missiles could manage, or a Harpy pilot could have a wet dream about.”
She was right. The gaping, melted chasms in the hulls, the slagged interiors that became visible as Folly’s searchlights roved across the nearest wreckage.
Only one weapon delivered that sort of damage.
“Prestige torpedoes,” Deadeye said.
“Damn it. There was… oh, Dead Man, there were kids on that thing…”
“Hold it together,” he said, more for himself than for her as his hands tightened on the manuals. “We need a full recon here. Take as many pics and vids as you can.”
Slushie sniffed and grunted. “Ha, you make it sound like a crime scene on a Captain Kalavar episode. Yeah… yeah, I’m on it.”
In the five months since the events at Stein 2051, Deadeye and his shipmates had flown a variety of missions for a range of employers: escorting Lalande flights to protect settlers from pirates, cargo runs helping MEC supply colonists en route to Earth, jumps to Freelancer outposts to gather new Runner recruits, and rescuing stranded transports whose drives had shut down or their pilots had entered comas.
Being a privateer wasn’t so bad. Until it was.
He thought of Talon and his shipmates on Wild Seed, aiding the relocation efforts at 61 Cygni. How he wanted to drink and joke with them in the rec room. How he wanted to hold Talon, in an affirmation that the universe still possessed warmth.
Yet the more pics he snapped of the derelict, the colder he felt.
“We’ll have to jump back to 61 Cygni and let the Cap’n know,” Deadeye said. “Those damned bot ships might still be round and…”
“You don’t sound so sure over there,” Slushie said. “What’s up?”
He sighed. “Just… hold on.”
Folly’s spectrometers detected traces of radionuclides typically left after the deployment of a Prestige torpedo. The payload was effectively a controlled fusion explosion, reaching temperatures of ten thousand degrees Celsius. He recalled the torpedoes incinerating MEC navy crews at 82 Eri. The only reason he and Slushie had spotted any corpses outside the derelicts was due to the depressurization of the passenger berths. The ones who’d perished in the hellish interior fires had been the fortunate ones.
Foyle’s Folly detected no other craft in their vicinity. Its bow scopes revealed a smattering of debris surrounding the derelicts: seats, crates, and an egress ladder. A bulkhead lined with crayon drawings.
A small form in a jumpsuit, still clutching a plush bear.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
“What the actual fuck?” Slushie asked, flying One-Eyed Jack two kilometers off his starboard. “Dead Man, somebody already punked this convoy, we need to—”
“I know.”
He flew closer and scanned again. Still nothing.
They had arrived at the rendezvous point in Kruger 60, five AU from the larger of the system’s twin red dwarf suns. At thirteen light-years from Earth, it was a key location among the Spur’s spinward jump lanes. Talon had instructed them to meet the convoy, escort it to Barnard’s Star, and turn it over to the MEC fleet waiting there for further escort to Sol. He’d flown the same mission, on the same route, four times in a row. Harpy activity had been hot in the area, but slacked off after he and Slushie had destroyed one of their squadrons two weeks ago.
“Hey, you seeing the damage to those ships?” she asked. “Waaay more than Meccer missiles could manage, or a Harpy pilot could have a wet dream about.”
She was right. The gaping, melted chasms in the hulls, the slagged interiors that became visible as Folly’s searchlights roved across the nearest wreckage.
Only one weapon delivered that sort of damage.
“Prestige torpedoes,” Deadeye said.
“Damn it. There was… oh, Dead Man, there were kids on that thing…”
“Hold it together,” he said, more for himself than for her as his hands tightened on the manuals. “We need a full recon here. Take as many pics and vids as you can.”
Slushie sniffed and grunted. “Ha, you make it sound like a crime scene on a Captain Kalavar episode. Yeah… yeah, I’m on it.”
In the five months since the events at Stein 2051, Deadeye and his shipmates had flown a variety of missions for a range of employers: escorting Lalande flights to protect settlers from pirates, cargo runs helping MEC supply colonists en route to Earth, jumps to Freelancer outposts to gather new Runner recruits, and rescuing stranded transports whose drives had shut down or their pilots had entered comas.
Being a privateer wasn’t so bad. Until it was.
He thought of Talon and his shipmates on Wild Seed, aiding the relocation efforts at 61 Cygni. How he wanted to drink and joke with them in the rec room. How he wanted to hold Talon, in an affirmation that the universe still possessed warmth.
Yet the more pics he snapped of the derelict, the colder he felt.
“We’ll have to jump back to 61 Cygni and let the Cap’n know,” Deadeye said. “Those damned bot ships might still be round and…”
“You don’t sound so sure over there,” Slushie said. “What’s up?”
He sighed. “Just… hold on.”
Folly’s spectrometers detected traces of radionuclides typically left after the deployment of a Prestige torpedo. The payload was effectively a controlled fusion explosion, reaching temperatures of ten thousand degrees Celsius. He recalled the torpedoes incinerating MEC navy crews at 82 Eri. The only reason he and Slushie had spotted any corpses outside the derelicts was due to the depressurization of the passenger berths. The ones who’d perished in the hellish interior fires had been the fortunate ones.
