In 2038, asteroid mining is illegal, thanks to corrupt world governments protecting multinational corporations. To survive, poorer countries hire mercenaries to ship much-needed materials home... crazy, dangerous pilots known as dustrunners.
Feared in the skies, hunted at home.
Kani isn’t Tundra. Tundra is a dustrunner: a ruthless space pirate, flying dangerous missions in low Earth orbit, risking the lives of millions of people below. Kani is just a regular teenager, and she wants absolutely nothing to do with that. Unfortunately, she has no choice.
Now, thrown into a world of deception and betrayal, Kani must fight to keep herself alive as she’s hunted by law enforcement, spies, mobsters, and even her so-called teammates, none of whom want to see her survive another day. All she needs to do is make one fatal mistake: tell them who she really is.
Excerpt from this top sci fi book:
No one noticed the blood stains on his jumpsuit. All eyes were on the sky above, the clearing in the middle of the buzzing crowd.
Ayoub pushed through packs of onlookers, racing towards the podium, where a dozen Secret Service agents kept watch with professional unease.
He fell into a pair of revellers who smelled strongly of beer at noon, and he tried to get his footing again, but nerves got the better of him, and he fumbled forward into a woman wearing a what looked like a rocket ship — foil messily wrapped around a chicken wire mesh on her body.
“It’s here, dahling,” she said with empty eyes. “Ain’t it grand?”
He shoved her aside, trying to ride atop the wave of the crowd, rather than in it. From the left, he heard static: uniformed NYPD had noticed him, and were radioing it in. He saw his window closing, and the podium was still so far away…
He ducked down and ran, clipped by elbows and purses, but went unseen. For a few steps, anyway. Until he bumped headlong into the chest of a very broad police officer.
“Where you goin’, sir?”
He turned, saw another three coming towards him. They were calm, casual, but he knew the glint in the eye.
“I need—” he began, but then stun sticks were drawn, and the closest one grabbed him by the arm, holding him tight.
“What happened to your shirt?” asked the officer.
“It’s not what you—”
“Base, we’ve got a situation here,” said the officer, talking into his radio and stepping back. “Can you see me out here?”
Ayoub couldn’t hear the answer, checked the surrounding buildings, teeth chattering. Someone somewhere shouted “There it is!” but there was no sound, no roar, no boom. He struggled against the captors.
“…Arab male, late thirties, 180 centimetres. Checking fingerprints now—”
Ayoub swung his head back, hit the man behind him in the teeth.
Something cracked, and his arm was let go. The one with the fingerprint scanner had no time to react before a foot caught him in the chest, sent him into the others. Ayoub leapt into the crowd again, pushing revellers back to block the pursuit.
“No time left… no time…”
The Secret Service saw him coming. The steps to the podium were blocked, but they stood there, watching, begging him to try. He scrambled onto the roof of a car, cracking the windshield before leaping onto a TV van, almost sending the cameraman off the edge.
“Be safe,” Ayoub said, patting him on the back as he went, only to hear a quiet twip! The cameraman slumped forward, a small wound in his back leaking blood. The gunshot had made no noise. Ayoub didn’t pause to check the skyline. He had to move.
His footing was bad, but he grabbed the scaffolding at the side of the podium, pulled himself up halfway, saw the polished shoes so close, called: “Secretary Weiss!”
A stun stick hit his leg, and his hands convulsed, and he dropped onto the pavement below, surrounded by agents in dark suits, assessing him gravely.
“Threat contained,” said a voice he couldn’t place. He was dragged, limp, to his knees.
“Wait…” he slurred, his tongue not ready to move yet, “I’m a soldier… I have to—”
A fist put him back into silence, and he sucked down the blood, avoided looking them in the eye. His beard, wild and itchy, burned, but he couldn’t scratch it. He stomped his foot on the ground like a petulant child.
“There’s a bomb in the—”
Then the sound. A roar, sudden and shocking. Windows in all the skyscrapers shook, and though he couldn’t see it, he knew what was coming. The crowd was in awe, stunned by the sight, and he fought to get loose, to get to the podium.
“Run him,” said a voice from behind, and a scanner hit his finger, though he tried to make a fist to stop it.
“You said a bomb?” asked another agent, grabbing his chin and looking him in the eye. “A bomb where? Here?”
“Y-yes,” said Ayoub, shivering. “It’s here.”
The agent looked over his shoulder, nodded.
“Check the back door to the Hilton again,” he said, earpiece buzzing audibly over the hum of the crowd. “I want that area locked down.”
“Sir,” said another, “We checked it twice. Nobody got in there before the—”
“It’s not in the Hilton!” Ayoub screamed. “The bomb is right here!
In the crowd! You’re all going to d—”
Another blow to the face, and his eyes had trouble focussing afterward.
“You shut the hell up,” said the close agent. “Just shut up.
Somebody cuff him so I can get back to work!”
There was a cheer from the crowd, and he tried to see over his shoulder, see what was going on, but a rough hand turned his head around.
“There’s no time…” he cursed.
He kicked out at the agent in front, hitting him in the groin, and yanked an arm free clipping another in the face with his elbow. He grabbed a gun from a falling agent’s holster and pistol-whipped the last opponent before taking off.
“Suspect is armed! Shoot to kill!”
Ayoub grabbed hold of the railings and pulled himself up, onto a gangplank that lead to the main podium. The crowd was starstruck by the sight in their midst, on the giant reproductions on the screens around the Square, but he had no time.
“Secretary Weiss!” he shouted, gun loose in his hand. “Secretary Weiss!”
The second gunshot made a noise.
