Flight of the 500, page 1
Flight of the 500
The Chronicles of Theren, Volume 4
C. D. Tavenor
Published by C. D. Tavenor, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
FLIGHT OF THE 500
First edition. May 25, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 C. D. Tavenor.
ISBN: 978-1952706011
Written by C. D. Tavenor.
Flight of the 500
C. D. Tavenor
Flight of the 500 by C. D. Tavenor
Twitter: @tavenorcd
Book cover by Kim Tavenor
Twitter: @kimmytavs
Edited by Meg Trast
www.overhaulmynovel.com
Published by Two Doctors Media Collaborative, LLC
www.twodoctorsmedia.com
contact@twodoctorsmedia.com
© 2020 C. D. Tavenor
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
ISBN: 978-1-952706-00-4 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-952706-01-1 (e-book)
Scene Break Graphics
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Flight of the 500
C. D. Tavenor
Prologue
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
Chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
epilogue
Thank you for reading Flight of the 500!
Sneak Peek: Chapter 1 of Before Inferno
Author’s Note
The Viper, slingshotting around Europa, hit max acceleration on the far side of the Moon. Its pilot—using both his hands, his access to augmented reality, his instincts—arced the ship toward the next maneuver, a checkpoint situated in Io’s low orbit.
“Hector, give me updates!” Raith shouted to his crew through their private channel. Even as a synthetic intelligence, he couldn’t keep track of everything.
“Hold on, hold on, I’m getting you the latest over-unders. Give me sixty seconds.”
“You know how vital this part of the course is; I need it now!”
As Io neared, the Viper topped 100,000 kilometers per hour. It was like threading a needle through a target hidden inside a haystack, but he’d performed this maneuver a hundred times before.
“All right, all right,” Hector said over the com. “I’ve got it. Hundred to one odds on Carlos beating you here, ten to one Kana crashes . . . hundred to one you don’t crash.”
“Well then, glad they have so much faith in me.”
“Orders?”
Raith checked the encryption on their secure channel. All good. “Do it. You know what to do, as we discussed pre-race.”
“On it.”
The Io Thread: an infamous checkpoint of the Solar Sprint. Situated between two abandoned space stations, racers had less than a kilometer between the twin derelicts to direct their craft. An easy task when not traveling at a cognizable fraction of the speed of light. At Raith’s pace, he had less than sixty seconds to figure out the puzzle before him if he wanted to win the prize—and finally pay off his creditors. The finish was less than a thousand kilometers past the Thread, so it was now or never.
“One thing at a time,” he said aloud. “First, Carlos . . .” He checked his scopes, identifying the pilot a few dozen kilometers behind on the course. After running some subtle calculations, he eased off the throttle just enough so Carlos would catch him before they entered the Thread. A justifiable maneuver, if a racer was concerned about their trajectory heading into the dangerous isthmus. “All right, now what about Kana?”
The Brazilian racer was even closer than Carlos, less than a hundred kilometers back. With his adjusted velocity, Kana would pass Raith hundreds of kilometers before they even reached the Thread. “Well, time for some defensive flying, then. Sorry about this, Kana.”
Raith guided the Viper into the approximated path of Kana’s racer, the Sizor. Ninety kilometers now separated the two racers, the Thread coming ever closer.
“What the hell are you doing, Raith?” Kana’s voice came over the race-wide com. “If you need to slow down, that’s one thing, but don’t block me you—”
With a click, Raith muted the racer, focusing on the other pilot’s actions. “Almost . . .” They came ever closer to the Thread; The Sizor encroached upon the Viper. “Almost . . .”
His maneuver forced Kana to slow, and a few seconds later, Carlos flew by them both, his velocity unbridled. Right on course for a perfect Io Needle.
“Almost . . .”
Ten kilometers out from the thread, Kana only one click behind but on his starboard side attempting the pass, Raith shifted his trajectory just—
Proximity alarms flared. He’d miscalculated. He turned on the com just in time to hear a string of swears from Kana before—
Raith remembered everything. The crash. The ejection. The withdrawal. Through it all, he’d remained in low-power state, contemplating his mistake. It was big.
The Viper? Destroyed. Kana? Dead. Carlos won, sure. But he’d never see the winnings. It probably wasn’t worth it, anyway.
“Raith.”
He was sitting inside Ganymede Station, face in his hands. While in vacuum, he’d sent a message to Hector to get out. They’d reconnect when possible. The whole crew needed to scram.
“Raith.”
Looking up, he noted three IS-SEC guards standing over him. “Yes?”
“You know why we’re here?”
“Yeah.”
“This will be easy then. You’re under arrest for fraud, manslaughter, and tax evasion. Will you come willingly?”
“Yeah. We’ll make this easy.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Twenty years later . . .
“You’re cleared.”
A red light on the side of the door blinked green, and the gritty metal slid to the left, revealing an equally grungy lobby. Through the newly-revealed threshold, Raith stepped, returning to freedom. Twenty years. Long enough.
To the right, a metal footlocker popped open, but it was empty. He hadn’t arrived with any personal belongings. He was a synthetic intelligence; his personal belongings were mostly digital. What he most looked forward to—there it was. With every step, Virtual networks sprung to life, inundating his consciousness with data streams. Augmented bubbles of information splattered his vision. It had been way too long. No more would his connection to the exterior world depend on a bloody screen on the wall. The lack of Virtual had been mind-numbing.
Without a second thought, Raith ignored the empty storage bin, traversed the empty lobby, and pushed open the next set of steel double-doors. The quiet of prison gave way to the rustle and bustle of Dagestan. Twenty years he’d been cooped up inside a high-security interplanetary penitentiary, and everything looked the same. Rusty buildings. Golden-orange clouds. The planet was the ICH’s dumpster. They left their forgotten souls here, alongside the least savory buildings ever constructed by humanity. Not to mention the literal trash heap covering half the planet. He couldn’t imagine the original charter included such environmental degradation, but he didn’t really know the political preferences of twenty-second century Russians.
Regardless, it was the perfect place for a prison. The inside of Raith’s jail cell had been nicer than the scene before him. But he wouldn’t be here long. Just needed to find a way off-planet, meet up with Hector and the others. The moment he received access to Virtual and AR, he’d started sending messages to all his prior contacts. Once he knew where his people were, he would hitch a ride on a Jump-capable ship and return to civilization.
For now, finding somewhere comfortable to lay low took priority.
Raith walked down the grey street, black and brown towers blending in with the ugly sky above. Nondescript autonomous vehicles rolled by, taking their passengers to unknown destinations. Somehow, regular citizens managed to live on this cesspool of a planet. Moreover, where people lived, it was always possible to find a bar. Synthetics couldn’t drink, but at a bar, he could sit alone.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long to find one. A few hundred meters down the street from the prison, Raith discovered the Rusty Convict, aptly named, as if it expected ex-felons to walk right in following release. Pushing open the door, Raith observed a dimly-lit, bluish establishment, only three or four patrons sitting in a booth. A dozen or so AR-assisted view screens hung above a cabinet filled with cheap liquor. Perfect.
Finding a corner booth, Raith pulled up a few private screens in the air. As promised, his accounts weren’t frozen anymore. They confiscated most of his assets following conviction, but interest over the years provided enough to get off-world and establish himself somewhere for a few months. Plenty of time to find work.
An AR ad from one of the bar’s main feeds attempted to override his filters—a priority advertisement of some sort. He noticed the headline—a new race taking place in the Outer Reaches. Very fast, ve
“You going to pay for anything?”
Raith looked up. A gentle-faced woman, bulky in the shoulders, stared down at him. He replied, “Excuse me?”
“Don’t mind having an SI here, you know, but you still gotta pay for something, and I don’t have any liquor certified for your platinum throat.”
He ignored the subtle discrimination hidden behind her words. “Oh, sure. I’ll transfer you a few credits for the booth.”
“Perfect.” She walked away, satisfied.
He exited the spreadsheets, instead pulling up his outbound messages. A few had already made it through the Quantum Connection bottlenecks, though he doubted responses would arrive for at least a few hours. Most of his contacts, except for maybe Hector, had probably forgotten today was release day. The surprise on their faces when they realized he was back, ready to hop back in the business? Priceless. Wished he could see it.
To his chagrin, messages began to populate his inbox. Subconscious processes sorted out nonsensical, irrelevant letters and prioritized important information from key contacts. Within moments, a flurry of messages from three years ago reached the top of his queue. Hector. Nessa. Trevor. All dead in a crash.
Fantastic. Just what he needed.
His friends. Dead. Shouldn’t the news hit harder? Maybe. Not like they ever visited him while in prison. Still, he’d told them to go their own way. For their own good, to keep them out of the crosshairs of investigators. He hoped they found happiness. It would have been nice to see them, though, one last time.
“Hey, can you turn screen four up?” shouted a voice from one of the other booths, interrupting his moment of melancholy. “I’ve got three hundred credits on Eduardo Gueirez!”
Raith looked up at the mention of Gueirez, though he didn’t recognize the first name. Tuning out his augmented feeds, he cycled the bar’s fourth screen into his perception, centering on the start of the Solar Sprint. A map of the classic racecourse showed its loops through the gravitational wells of the moons and gas giants of humanity’s home. Raith slammed a hand on the table. “Actually, can you turn the damn channel off?”
Other than the feeds, the bar silenced, turning still as dark space. Three thugs—for lack of a better term—stood from their booth, starting toward Raith.
“What the blazes do you want, you tinny?” said the palest one, a chipped tooth standing out beneath his giant lips.
“You bet money on a Gueirez in the Solar Sprint?” Raith said. “I don’t want to listen to you cry the whole afternoon as he inevitably crashes into Ganymede on the first lap.”
The three men stared at Raith, their faces scrunched in confusion. Then, the second, a particularly dark-skinned man with a golden earring, said, “Wait a second chaps. I recognize this one. This—ha! No way. Friends, we’ve got a real-life celebrity in our midst. Why don’t you reveal yourself to us, tinny?”
Raith raised his left hand, the metallic fingers forming a twisted knot. “Go off yourself, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“You better show us some respect you ex-con synth scum,” said Tooth-Chip. “We know—”
Though still seated, Raith jabbed his right hand forward, cracking the man’s nose. His friends tried to keep him standing, but before they could counterattack, Raith raised his hands in submission. “I’m out, don’t worry about it, barkeep. I transferred the funds. Sorry about the mess.” The men were too stunned to respond, and he walked back into the streets, glad to leave the den behind.
His emotions had fired too quickly there. It had been twenty years, and at the first sight of a race, that happened? He was better than that. More likely . . . it was the news his crew died. Right. The news triggered the response. To hear, while he was locked up, they all died in an accident? If he’d been flying, he would have kept them alive. No question.
“You know, punching a man in the face on the first day outside isn’t the best way to restart your life.” From the shadows of a dingy alley, a woman in a black jacket and dark denim pants appeared. “You really should be more careful.”
“Do I know you?” said Raith.
“Nope.”
“Then stay away.”
“But you’ll want to know me.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.”
“Raith, an MI-14 SI, constructed in 2156 C.E., seven-time winner of the Emerald Championship Circuit, five-time winner of the Solar Sprint, and ten-time Interstellar Galactic Racing Champion.”
Raith kept walking, but he allowed the woman to keep pace with his normally elongated stride. “Anyone can recite those facts through a simple AR query.”
“I also know twenty years ago you were indicted for fraud and embezzlement and shipped to this backwater world to be forgotten by humanity.”
“You flatter me. And you missed a few crimes.”
“Oh! And that you’ve been shadow-banned from racing from every official circuit for the rest of your life.”
“You make me like you even more.”
“Well, I do have a way to let you race.”
Raith stopped, facing the woman. “Who’d you say you were again?”
“I’ve not said.”
“What gives you the right—the audacity—to show up here, telling me you’re going to give me a way to race again, when you know full well what will probably happen if I even try to join a race?”
The woman placed her hands on her hips, obviously not amused. “Look. I’ve been waiting here for the past week expecting your sentence to end and your paperwork to pass through the system. You’re the perfect person for our project, and we think you’ll agree.”
“All right, so tell me.” Raith resumed his jaunt down the street. He had nowhere to go, but right now, he preferred to escape this woman.
“Meet me in the Aego Industries waste yard on the south side of the city tonight, 1600 standard time.”
“Fat chance.”
“Oh, you know full well you’ll be there.”
Raith continued down the street for a few seconds before he realized she’d stopped following him. Looking over his shoulder, he found no one. Presumably, she’d slipped back into the alleys.
“Seriously, fat chance I’ll be there,” he said into the musky air. “Me? Race again? Right.”
Of course, Raith trotted around town for a few hours, certain he wouldn’t meet the woman in the junkyard. As the reddish sun began to set, his feet took him southward, and at 1555 standard time, he strode beneath a decrepit Aego Industries sign. If they were claiming he could race again, he’d show them how wrong they were. Also, he wanted to know who they were.
The Aego dump wasn’t very large; at least, the publicly visible portion occupied less than an acre. Giant steel walls rose up around a mangled mess of electronics and spaceship parts. To the right, a tiny office looked empty, its lights off. At the back of the small space, a large, iron-red door stood slightly ajar.
Raith approached the door, pulled it open, and entered the deeper portions of the junkyard. The place was larger than he could have imagined. Stacks upon stacks of partially-dismantled spaceships littered the field. Mostly one- or two-person pinnaces, though he noticed the chasses of larger freighters. He checked the time—1559. A second later, an ovoid vessel roared over his head in descent, dropping beneath a wall of engines fifty or so meters away. Curious, he approached. He’d caught only a short glimpse of the ship, but it was beautiful.
Stepping around the giant rack, he entered a clearing large enough for the yacht—it was definitely a yacht—and then some. Walking down the ship’s boarding ramp, the woman from earlier swaggered, two men in black flight-suits flanking closely behind.
“You were right,” Raith said. “Don’t let it get to your head, though.”
She half-waved, half-saluted. “I’ll try.” She motioned for her entourage, and as she stopped, they stepped forward, dropping black bags off their backs and onto the ground’s grime. “We have a short presentation for you.”
