by Jackson Ford
The Lieren are close behind, colliding with the group, bowling them over in a mess of confused shouts. But I’ve got the edge now. Their cries fade into the distance.
There’s not a lot you can move between sectors without paying off the gangs. Not unless you know where and how to cross. Tracers do. And that’s why we exist. If you need to get something to someone, or if you’ve got a little package you don’t want any gangs knowing about, you come find us. We’ll get it there – for a price, of course – and if you come to my crew, the Devil Dancers, we’ll get it there fast.
The corridor exit looms, and then I’m out, into the gallery. After the corridors, the giant lights illuminating the massive open area are blinding. Corridor becomes catwalk, bordered with rusted metal railings, and the sound of my footfalls fades away, whirling off into the open space.
I catch a glimpse of the diagram on the far wall, still legible a hundred years after it was painted. A scale picture of the station. The Core at the centre, a giant sphere which houses the main fusion reactor. Shooting out from it on either side, two spokes, connected to an enormous ring, the main body. And under it, faded to almost nothing after over a century: Outer Earth Orbit Preservation Module, Founded AD 2234.
Ahead of me, more people emerge from the far entrance to the catwalk. A group of teenage girls, packed tight, talking loudly among themselves. I count ten, fifteen – no. They haven’t seen me. I’m heading full tilt towards them.
Without breaking stride, I grab the right-hand railing of the catwalk and launch myself up and over, into space.
For a second, there’s no noise but the air rushing past me. The sound of the girls’ conversation vanishes, like someone turned down a volume knob. I can see all the way down to the bottom of the gallery, a hundred feet below, picking out details snatched from the gaps in the web of criss-crossing catwalks.
The floor is a mess of broken benches and circular flowerbeds with nothing in them. There are two young girls, skipping back and forth over a line they’ve drawn on the floor. One is wearing a faded smock. I can just make out the word Astro on the back as it twirls around her. A light above them is flickering off-on-off, and their shadows flit in and out on the wall behind them, dancing off metal plates. My own shadow is spread out before me, split by the catwalks; a black shape broken on rusted railings. On one of the catwalks lower down, two men are arguing, pushing each other. One man throws a punch, his target dodging back as the group around them scream dull threats.
I jumped off the catwalk without checking my landing zone. I don’t even want to think what Amira would do if she found out. Explode, probably. Because if there’s someone under me and I hit them from above, it’s not just a broken ankle I’m looking at.
Time seems frozen. I flick my eyes towards the Level 5 catwalk rushing towards me.
It’s empty. Not a person in sight, not even further along. I pull my legs up, lift my arms and brace for the landing.
Contact. The noise returns, a bang that snaps my head back even as I’m rolling forwards. On instinct, I twist sideways, so the impact can travel across, rather than up, my spine. My right hand hits the ground, the sharp edges of the steel bevelling scraping my palm, and I push upwards, arching my back so my pack can fit into the roll.
Then I’m up and running, heading for the dark catwalk exit on the far side. I can hear the Lieren reach the catwalk above. They’ve spotted me, but I can tell by their angry howls that it’s too late. There’s no way they’re making that jump. To get to where I am, they’ll have to fight their way through the stairwells on the far side. By then, I’ll be long gone.
“Never try to outrun a Devil Dancer, boys,” I mutter between breaths.
By Jackson Ford
The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind
Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air
Eye of the Sh*t Storm
Praise for
Jackson Ford and The Frost Files
Praise for The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind
“Furious, frenetic, fun, and ‘f**k you’: All equally valid descriptions of this book and its punk rock chef / psychic warrior protagonist. It’s like the X-Men, if everybody was sick of each other’s sh*t, they had to work manual labor to pay rent, and Professor X was a sociopathic government stooge. A drunken back-alley brawler of a book.”
—Robert Brockway, author of The Unnoticeables
“Like Alias meets X-Men. I loved it.”
—Maria Lewis
“Ford’s debut holds nothing back, delivering a sense of absurd fun and high-speed thrills that more than lives up to that amazing title.”
—B&N Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog
“Teagan is a frank and funny narrator for this wild ride, which starts off with our heroine falling from the 82nd floor of a skyscraper and pretty much never slows down.… A fast-paced, high-adrenaline tale that manages to get into some dark themes without losing its sense of fun.”
—Kirkus
“Ford’s breakneck pace keeps the tension high, and the thrills coming the whole way through.”
—BookPage
“The novel unfolds cinematically with loads of breathtaking action, a perfect candidate for film or television adaptation.… [Readers will] want more.”
—Booklist
“Ford’s strengths are evident in the taut action sequences and suspenseful pacing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The writing and storytelling is as clear and fun as the title indicates.”
—Locus
Praise for Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air
“A fantastic follow-up.… Readers who enjoyed Teagan’s first brush with disaster will be thrilled to see her pushed beyond her limits in this winning sequel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This second book about psychokinetic superspy Teagan is even more suspenseful than The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind (2019). The stakes couldn’t be higher.… The suspense, the danger, and the rocket-fueled pace are all turned up to 11 in this more-than-satisfying sequel.”
—Kirkus
“This smart, action-packed novel is tighter than its predecessor, and Ford injects just enough exposition that new readers will be able to pick up here. Readers will be back for the next entry.”
—Booklist