Alien Velocity Read Online Free Page A

squirmed in the pit of his stomach. “Good luck. Daddy, I—”
    “Ah, the photographers are here. Just a couple of quick pictures, son. Here we go, smile now.”
    It was the fakest smile Charlie had ever given. Before he knew it, his dad’s personal assistant, Phoebe Watts, had her arm over his shoulders and was leading him back to the ice station while his dad, now all alone, threw him a wave.
    “But, Daddy, I—”
    “Stay close to me, Charlie,” Phoebe reassured him in her usual excited, shrill voice. “I’ve got a nice cosy spot all picked out for us.”
    In that moment, he knew everything would be all right. This was the adult world, not his. What could he do that could possibly interfere with a million-credit racing machine on Jupiter’s icy moon? He checked the wrist of his glove. One of the stud fasteners had fallen off, that was all. It was no bigger than a thumbnail. He chuckled at how silly he’d been.
    Hundreds of pairs of fixed binoculars mounted on tripods lined the observation wing of Camp Shackleton’s main building. Inside, the air was warm and growing warmer, with too many bodies close by giving off too much heat. He fidgeted in his green pullover and black corduroy trousers until his stance became comfortable—slightly stooped, with one leg standing on the windowsill. He adjusted the binoculars until the view was crystal clear. High magnification. The image stuttered, though, so he rotated the lenses for a lower zoom. Perfect. Full Bluebird, and no stuttering.
    Hushed voices and a strong smell of new leather filled the room. Phoebe patted his shoulder but he ignored her.
    Come on, Daddy, start the engine already.
    Miles away, the Bluebird suddenly nudged forward, an orange blaze tonguing the ice behind her as she seemed to skid. The wheels were invisible beneath the side panel, while two white commas rose where the spikes tossed up fragments of ice. The hushed voices trebled into loud speech around him.
    It was difficult seeing much of anything except a surprisingly slow-moving blue bug in the jaws of a white wave. He kept watch, though. It was his duty. He couldn’t miss one second of the run. Reginald Thorpe-Campbell was his dad. The idea widened his eyes. A low thunderclap in the distance made him think a storm was coming, but he heard someone shout to his right, “Punch it! There goes the sound barrier!”
    Suddenly the race was thrilling. The Bluebird now seemed to be shooting forward, even pulling away from the white wave. The wheels had to have retracted by now, letting the sharp skis take over. Go, Daddy, go! Faster and faster—a blue bolt rocketing over the smooth ice—it passed Camp Shackleton half a minute later at close to Mach 7, according to another person to his right.
    “Son of a bitch, he’s gonna do it!” yelled another.
    Phoebe clasped her hands together, rocked them rapidly back and forward. “Please, Reggie, please, please.”
    Charlie swallowed hard. His dad whooshed past him faster than any bullet ever fired in the history of mankind. The orange flame appeared twice as long as the Bluebird itself, and Charlie now gasped when he realised how powerful the rocket really was. Both frightening and amazing, racing was bigger than he’d ever dreamed—his dad, the fastest man alive.
    He roved his viewer to the left, across the plateau, following the wave and the orange tongue. He couldn’t see the craft anymore. No hint of blue. Then the tongue vanished, and high up over the white wave…a flash of blue.
    “Eh?” he said.
    A chorus of loud gasps answered him. Then a shrill scream from Phoebe Watts cleaved his world in two.
    It was all white and empty out there. Inside, deafening darkness, closed doors.
    Someone told him the Bluebird had flipped at Mach 8.
    “Daddy?”
    No answer.
    The entire room fell silent. All eyes were on him after all. He didn’t say a word about the metal stud.
    No one could ever know.
    Only Charlie.
    He wanted to run away over the ice and