PALLAS: Sample chapter and pre-order links!

The release approaches! July 18!

E-book pre-order links at the bottom! Paperback pre-orders coming soon!

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Pallas

For Kylan Bence, hauling freight through the Belt is lonely work, and when his ship malfunctions that loneliness might kill him. Stranded on the asteroid Pallas, in view of a concrete dome long thought abandoned, he chances a distress signal—and gets a response.

As he enters the settlement, a secret paradise greets him. Lush and vibrant plants, real food, clean water—and a population desperate to keep him inside… with everything else they've kept hidden in the soil, the air, and under the skin.

Part One: The Blessings of the Soil

1

That light had never flashed, not ever. Red ticking, haloed bleeding over white plastic, steady rhythm. Pops of urgency through the computer hum, and while considering all this with a hand over her mouth . . . Everything she needed to know they’ve told her, but that was a lie, if she knew everything then what to do about that light? What else could be done, but to investigate it? She would be in trouble if she did, if she didn’t. “What do I do?”

She rolled the chair to the console and sat, a croak of rust, worn fabric under thighs. Hand returning to mouth, she bit down on a finger while watching the Maintenance texts scroll by, green but for one line of red. She touched the line. A vessel had landed outside the settlement, the drones hadn’t shot at it . . . Additional Media. She read the report again, trying to organize her thoughts, to calm her nerves, she would be punished no matter her choice—her only uncertainty in that regard was how much.

Additional Media, two items, Audio, Visual . . . in all her years of work in Automation Maintenance she had never seen those words on the screen. Audio? Might be safer, she had to choose—and this would be the first contact made with anything outside in years. Long enough, she didn’t know. The thought made her sweat.

She watched the light for another long minute, but the ticking—unsure if the noise was real or just the light biting at her, the more she hesitated to press it. Choice made, do as it bid. She pressed, and held her breath.

“This is Ceres Mining Company transport number Bravo Hotel Quebec Three Seven, shipment operator Kylan Bence. I am stranded on the surface in view of your settlement with a fuel malfunction, and I send this out to let anyone listening be aware that the ship is not fully autonomous and there is a human on board. My Com has sent the details to your system. If there is anyone alive on Pallas, please respond. This is a recorded message and will repeat.”

Her pulse raced.

Additional Media still lit red. Visual, Live Connection.

Text gone, the screen flicked and an apparition of a man was there, at a distance, a flat distance, his back to her as he ran tethered to a strange black rug. All around him and all his clothes were white, just like the room she sat in—was the outside world just as dull—his hair swam as if he ran in water, his strides an odd bounce. As he landed each step, he huffed, sweat on his neck, a pinkish-sand skin, and he never moved forward. She was numb—looking through the strangest window, and how was he just there, and could she touch him—eyes aching as she stared, fingers dimpling her cheek. He was real, somehow—I’ll have to tell them, they’ll punish me, but I have to tell them—a shift of her weight in the chair had it squawk, and the man in the window spun with a holler. In her own panic she slammed her hand on the keys and the screen closed up.

Every bit of her shook, the chair, the floor shook with her. She stumbled as she ran, leaving the chair to spin.

***

Kylan tore the straps off his waist and leapt to the pilot console, a hand out to touch—what, a woman’s face, a young woman, she was there—but the projection was cold, her face gone. He forced himself down into the chair, zipping his jumpsuit and adjusting his cuffs and collar. “Why didn’t you tell me you were recording? Was that a connection with Pallas?”

His Com was programmed to be human-lite, not too familiar, endearing but not friendly, not human enough to care if it died, aside from the fact if it died so did he, and that was only a matter of time if the Company didn’t pick him up. “Our connection was received briefly!” Even the AI was glad.

“Repair the signal. Did we disconnect? We saw someone alive in there!”

“I cannot repair the signal. It was manually disconnected on their end. It did indeed appear as though there was a living person! You seem thrilled!”

“Yes, Com, you’re very observant.” Hand through sweat-slick hair, he huffed. His guts felt lopsided. Too much float, not enough pull. Seeing her—stomach in his throat now. “Replay the connection.”

Sickly pale, slim faced. Blonde, such a light blonde it was near to white—the only colour in the frame were her eyes, wide and milk-glass green. The walls were dull white, age-tinted plastic. Awkwardly framed, as if she didn’t know where the camera was pointed. Perhaps she didn’t know she was being recorded either. But those eyes—a human shine to them, nothing artificial. She was real. “Goddamn, she’s real!” His brain stuttered to process it all. He watched it again. No uniform, but a light grey dress, fine fabric bunched at shoulders, draped, soft flow in competition with that long hair. But there was something odd. He paused on a frame after her hand left her mouth. He had frightened her. That’s not it. Her lips had a greyness to them. Her eyes were saturated where everything else lacked. But she was human. He wasn’t alone, not alone, replaying the footage again to reassure himself . . .

Then he switched to the truck’s forward view and admired the concrete dome, camouflaged to the rock, the intimidating bubble a great feat of engineering within a crater edge that looked as though Pallas itself was swallowing what humans put there, and debated if he really should try at the entrance.

***

He had reached out to Ceres for advice. “Trucking station Eight Bravo, this is transport number Bravo Hotel Quebec Three Seven, you copy?” Azrah was on shift. She and Omondi were the only two communication technicians he had spoken with on Ceres since the discovery of the malfunction. They’ve bit their nails along with him wondering if he would be abandoned, being as much involved in the decision making, the question of his life as a line on a financial statement sheet, as he was. And Omondi, well, he and Kylan had mined together a while, both quit around the same time, but Kylan chose the solitary work for some fucking reason. Some idea that he needed a cure for interpersonal malaise, but it wasn’t. It was all leeches. Azrah was quick and official with her greetings, and he laid out his recent concern.

“Maybe you saw some sort of ghost signal?” She gave a cautious optimism Kylan couldn’t reciprocate, prepared to not be cautious.

“No, she reacted to me.”

“So, what are you going to do? Has anyone else responded?”

“Just that once.”

“And nothing else? No lights on the dome?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “No signs of life other than that. Just drones.” Com had exchanged signals to prevent the anti-debris drones from firing on them, as the systems were still functioning, bouncing back pings . . . A ghost settlement, nothing heard from them in over fifty years. Nothing in the database, short of a brief note, “Severance from Ceres Mining Company operations,” long before that last connection. Ancient history.

“So, are you checking it out, or what?”

He chuckled at her careful-Kylan to her but-why-not.

“If you do walk the surface, connect your nanotattoo to your Com. Just in case.”

That was meant for lovers. Heartbeats across unkind distances, hearing their whispers, feeling when they orgasm as if the thousands of kilometres that might separate the pair was nothing. Connecting to his truck felt wrong. He told Azrah he’d consider it, lied.

Night cycle was too long, thinking over everything. That strange face was already memorized, kept him awake. The lights on the pilot’s console reflected on the warped wall above his cot. Two blue lights held his attention, his body held in place by ragged straps and over-tight knots, buckles broken, held together with tape. The lights blinked out of sync for a long while, slowly came together in rhythm, fell out of sync. Air cycling kicked on, dried his eyes. The flashing lights synced up again. The Company morning jingle chimed and the overhead cabin lights popped on, drowning out the reflections, and he winced.

Com blipped cheery at him. “Good morning, Kylan. Yasha. Bence. Are you ready to receive updates?”

What was the point of updates? “Yes Com, go ahead.” Maybe they approved the cost for his rescue—he doubted it.

The gravity well was acting up again—his feet hovered before planting firm, allowing him to stand and stretch, slip his jumpsuit on, the carabiners still hooked to his waist clinked together.

It was immediately evident there were no updates from Ceres and Kylan tuned Com out, sank into the moulded chair. Knuckles rapped the polyethylene table. Leg bounced. If I could fix it—he had already gone down countless times to try and manually find the fault. Replacing switches, reconnecting wires, hitting the connector boxes once or twice. Pull the old chipcards and slip in new ones, even if they didn’t need it. There were spares.

“. . . any official complaints may be directed to representatives of Ceres Mining Company Limited or its holdings and, if necessary, any third party under contract if/when fault is determined upon thorough review.”

“Just get me breakfast, Com.”

“Might I suggest some entertainment during breakfast?”

Com was incapable of jokes so Kylan could only assume it was meant as an insult. “I know what you have to suggest, and the Company can’t make movies for shit.”

“Reminder, all communications are recorded for employee evaluation.”

“Then they oughta evaluate their film department. You know . . . Never mind. I’ll watch something later.”

“From your ‘classics’ list?”

“Please.”

What was the point of eating? What was the point of any of it? The vitamin-D lamp clicked on over the corner that held his exercise equipment, smooth and invisible but for handles in the walls to pull it all down, time to start his Company scheduled shit-shower-shave in a truck headed nowhere, cargo of dust, the timers will still run long after he was a mummified husk. His mother would get the nice payout, and that lamp would still fucking turn on.

He took the coffee pouch from the tray. The small table where he had his meals took up the space between his cot wall and the pilot console, with the much cushier chair. Opposite the table were two doors: one to the outside, one to the lower deck. His eyes jumped between them while his teeth crushed the straw. Five-by-eight meters, smaller every day, decrepit plastic coffin of a truck cab.

One last try. He chose the door on the left, no more blank white. Metal grate floor in a curved steel stairwell, orange light from below, neon fire that would burn him up if he sank through. Steps clanging, tubular rebounding, air filtration unheard in the cabin gave a throaty roar, and he was down in his office.

Toolbox still opened, he took up the cutters. The access hole he had cut days ago was still gaping, orange light through wires still intact. He missed his bunk in the Ceres mines—more than that, he missed Earth. He wanted to get drunk with Omondi. Get in fights with Martians. Earthlings were grunt labour—he loved to prove it. He could cut every wire within reach and get it over with. Nothing to prove to anyone, here, no more calluses, lot of good that’s done him. He was valued less than the cargo. There was no fixing it. Cut them all and dive into that orange light.

The other door was a better option.

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Here’s the first official review:

PALLAS - Creepy-vibe sci-horror

The Goodreads.com listing will have more as we approach release day, too!

And one short and to-the-point quote from a beta reader:

Done. Amazing. Loved it.

Mark your calendar! July 18th 2023!

I’ve made prices fair for my fellow Canucks, ‘cause our dollar sucks!

(Note: the kobo preview is a bit wonky on the website, but reads just fine on my ereader. Not sure why, hopefully it gets fixed. Also, it goes a bit further, it shares about a chapter and a half. Cool! Also note, the version at launch might be formatted slightly different, to match the paperback.)

Thank you so much for reading, and for your support! My substack will always be free, so if you’ve ever thought to throw me a tip, buying a copy of Pallas would be a great way to do so! (And when you read it, another great way to give support that costs nothing extra is to leave a review on Amazon/Kobo/Goodreads/your book review website of choice!)

Cheers!