đ A LOVEREADING "INDIE BOOKS WE LOVE" SELECTION
It is 2070, and the American dream has been replaced by containment zones, surveillance drones, and endless wildfire. Inside the Gypsum detention center, Alton Lucas lives a lie, concealing his mixed heritage from the white supremacists he is imprisoned with.
His cover is blown not by the inmates, but by the state. Desperate to stop a new wave of insurrection, the government weaponizes Alton against the insurgency's leader: Alex Weber, now known as Hagen. Years ago, Alton, Alex, and Kiara were inseparable, bonded by a shared obsession with space travel. Now, they are on opposite sides of a civil war.
To stop Alex, Alton must become something else entirely. Augmented with lethal technology and stripped of his agency, he is sent into the mountains to hunt the only family he has left. But as Alton peels back the layers of Alexâs plan, he discovers that the target isnât the the capitalâitâs the upcoming Mars Colony Launch.
From the squalor of prison camps to the promise of the Red Planet, Alton must decide if he will let the world burn to join his friendsâor if he has the strength to let them go.
đ A LOVEREADING "INDIE BOOKS WE LOVE" SELECTION
It is 2070, and the American dream has been replaced by containment zones, surveillance drones, and endless wildfire. Inside the Gypsum detention center, Alton Lucas lives a lie, concealing his mixed heritage from the white supremacists he is imprisoned with.
His cover is blown not by the inmates, but by the state. Desperate to stop a new wave of insurrection, the government weaponizes Alton against the insurgency's leader: Alex Weber, now known as Hagen. Years ago, Alton, Alex, and Kiara were inseparable, bonded by a shared obsession with space travel. Now, they are on opposite sides of a civil war.
To stop Alex, Alton must become something else entirely. Augmented with lethal technology and stripped of his agency, he is sent into the mountains to hunt the only family he has left. But as Alton peels back the layers of Alexâs plan, he discovers that the target isnât the the capitalâitâs the upcoming Mars Colony Launch.
From the squalor of prison camps to the promise of the Red Planet, Alton must decide if he will let the world burn to join his friendsâor if he has the strength to let them go.
Alton wept as he dragged his punctured leg, throbbing under the weight of the enormous railgun, through the freezing mud outside the internment camp. It had been a long time since he had cried -- not since crying himself to sleep that first night, when he lay in his narrow prison bed fearing that his life was over. After a few months, he had grown numb to it all, even coming to believe that he deserved his fate.
But now the desire to live and the desire to be free -- jolted awake by the rage of the waterboarding -- had reanimated other emotions as well. He knew what he had to do, even if it meant he would hurt a lot more before it was over.
Behind him, flashes lit up the sky and men screamed and shouted as the battle rolled through the camp. He felt confident that darkness, distance, and rain kept him beyond the scopes of the drones. But the âSlim Reapers,â as they were called, would come after him soon enough and he had seen what they could do. He set his teeth against the pain and forced himself to move.
He reached his boulder within a minute and dropped the railgun into the muck, patting the big rock like an old dog while he caught his breath. As he uncoiled the rope and tied on the grappling hook, he thought of the friends he was leaving behind and felt the urge to turn back.
But that would be pointless. He couldnât help them now -- especially not Simon -- so he searched for a place to attach the hook, futilely wiping the rain from his face shield as he did. He didnât want to use more light, but he couldnât see, and so he tapped it one lumen brighter, which helped nothing. He knew he was taking a big chance, but he held his breath and tapped again.
When he felt satisfied no drone had detected him, he secured the hook quickly in the improved visibility, then tugged the rope as hard as he could. Satisfied, he slipped the rope around his waist and tiptoed as close to the cliffâs edge as he dared in the dark. Then he set the beam to max and shined it into the abyss.
Even through the deluge, he could see the canyon floor, hundreds of feet below. Would the dropship be waiting out there as promised? Even if it was, he had foolishly thrown the beacon to signal the ship over the cliff several days earlier. It would certainly be smashed to bits.
But that worry could wait. As he turned to make his final rope adjustments, he realized that he had forgotten to lower the lamp setting and a Reaper was up and over the campâs east wall immediately. It sped silently towards him, its roving blue eye fixed in the direction of the beam. He killed the light, grabbed the railgun, and fired just as it bore down on him. The immense recoil knocked him onto his ass, but the drone angled up and away, narrowly avoiding the blast.
He crawled behind the boulder as it turned to make another pass, this time jamming the butt of the railgun against the rock before he fired. He missed again but at least the rock absorbed the massive kick. As the Reaper zipped past, it fired a slender bolt that scorched the nearby earth.
You missed, bastard, he thought, and fired again while it was still in an evasive maneuver.
Direct hit. The eye flashed orange-blue as the body whirled down like a skewered raven and rammed into the earth, splattering him with mud from twenty yards away.
He sprang up and almost whooped in triumph before remembering himself. More drones would follow, and it was now or never. He tightened the rope around his waist, slid the railgun under his arm, then seized the rope and yanked to make sure it was secure.
But to his shock, there was no tension at all, and he went fumbling backwards, dropping the gun and just grabbing the cliffâs edge before toppling over. His legs dangled in space as he scrambled to hoist himself back up.
The muddy cliff disintegrated as his frantic clawing sent rocks and roots flying over the ledge. Just as he was about to go over, his left hand grasped onto a rock lodged firmly enough into the earth to stop his fall. Even in the icy rain, he could feel the warm blood coursing from his gashed palm as he squeezed the jagged stone with what remained of his fading strength
His only chance was to grab the heavy gun and use its weight to pull himself up, but it lay just out of reach. He flung his free arm up and grasped for it, straining his fingers until he felt the tendons would snap and his arm would tear from its socket. Again and again, he flung his right arm towards the gun, howling with each attempt.
He finally got a fingerhold just as the stone in his left hand wiggled free from the earth. Hauling himself against the gunâs weight gave him the few inches he needed to heave himself onto flat ground. Unfortunately, the gun went flying into the chasm with the force of his pull.
He rolled onto his mangled thigh and pounded his fists in the mud. When the pain stopped blinding him, what he saw almost made him laugh. The bolt hadnât missed at all. The drone, recognizing his intentions, had cut his rope, leaving him with a hook tied to about eight feet of it.
For the first time, he considered giving up, slinking back to the camp and begging for mercy. But then he remembered the men who had leaped onto the drone from the barracks roof during the initial attack, wrestling it to the ground. And that gave him a very stupid and desperate idea.
He struggled to his feet, pain hammering his leg, and shined his light towards the camp at top setting. âCome on, motherfucker,â he snarled. His teeth chattered even beneath his face shield. He had never felt so cold in his life.
Finally, another Reaper elevated above the camp walls and approached with lethal swiftness. Was it a malevolent intelligence? They still maintained that AI could never be sentient, but thinking of it as an enemy psyched him up for what he was about to do.
At fifty feet, it opened up on him and he dove behind the rock, the bolts turning the clay sludge behind him to steam. The drone whirled about, its black face scowling down, the neon blue eye smoldering through the downpour. Alton scrambled to the opposite side of the rock.
As the drone began to descend, he doubled-knotted the shorn rope through his belt loops then crouched, squeezing the base of the hook until his good hand turned white. When it was close enough that he could see into the shallow depths of its artificial soul, he leapt out from behind the rock and snared the hook onto the face, then wheeled around so that he was opposite the eye.
The drone rocketed up, jerking him into the air. His good knee smashed into the rock, and he almost let go, but rage gave him the strength to hold on. He hoisted one fist on top of the other -- the rope tearing so deep into the wound in his left hand he thought it would scrape bone -- until he had tugged his foe down enough so that toes touched the ground.
Then he ran straight off the cliff.
They hung for a moment, and he felt exhilarated by the weightlessness -- the sensation pleasurably reminding him of floating high above Earth with Bernardo all those years before -- until the bastard drone sprayed burning aspirates straight through his nostalgia.
They coated the mask, blinding him, a few drops penetrating and searing his throat and lungs, spreading white pain far worse than any ghost pepper he had ever eaten on a dare. But still he hung on through his hacking and coughing while the drone wriggled and jerked under his weight, his fear of falling more compelling than any pain.
He had no plan for when they landed. Maybe the railgun would be intact and within reach? He kept hoisting one hand over the other, one hand over the other, tugging them down, closer and closer, until he noticed a fuzzy light blinking through his smeared visor. Another drone? No, it was surging towards them from far out in the canyon.
But there was no mistaking the eye of the second Reaper now streaking down the canyon wall. Just need a few more seconds, he thought, as the blue flash enveloped him and his body went numb. He lost feeling in his fingers and the rope slipped away.
He must have passed out, because hitting the ground awakened him with a jolt that he could feel in his teeth. His stun-numbed body didnât register pain, so it wasnât until he tried to move that he recognized something was wrong.
A splintered tree branch had pierced him just above the knee, protruding at a strange angle. The branch was clean and shone white where the rain washed away the blood. He gaped at it, until his groggy mind realized he wasnât looking at a branch, but a bone. There was nothing to do but lay back and welcome unconsciousness.
But the light that flooded the area was not cobalt, but white and blinding, and he had the impression of the drones settling to the ground like tamed animals. Then he was floating inside the light, a comforting and gentle levitation, and settling into a pearl and silver bay. A hatch sealed behind him. There was a soft hum and the last thing he saw was the canyon floor gliding by, silent and darkâŚ
Chapter 1
Alton stepped to the front clutching the two disintegrating paperbacks and the class fell silent, leaving only the sound of the unrelenting wind battering the schoolâs molded polymer shell. As it always did, his pulse quickened the moment before beginning a lesson. Part of it was performance anxiety, but part of it was excitement. Even in this hellhole, he still loved to teach.
âEven though they are set in the future, these two novels are pretty old,â he said. âWith some outdated ideas about space travel. Not to mention society. So why are we reading them now?â
The mostly young men stared at their tablet screens, pretending to study the text â all but his fellow âCivvyâ Simon, who gave Alton a patient smile from in between his graying mutton chops. It was not unusual for a full minute to pass before one of the Nibelungs mustered the courage to volunteer a thought -- and even then, they usually needed to be prodded. Having been recruited as teens or even small children to fight for Hagen, the âNeebsâ had little formal education. They might roam around camp with their chests puffed out, but they shrank considerably in the classroom.
Alton said, âThink about recent events.â
Finally, Lars, a hulking Neeb, raised his ham hock of a hand and grunted, âThe launch?â
âYes! The U.S. sends its first colony to Mars in, what⌠three weeks now?â He pretended that he didnât know the exact day, the exact minute, of the launch. But of course he had always dreamed of interplanetary travel, of being part of such an expedition.
âYears late, some would say,â Simon lamented. âThe United States was first to the moon, after all.â The Neebs nodded. American exceptionalism was something they could get behind.
âBut why have I asked you to read these particular novels, instead of something that reflects a more realistic depiction of what interplanetary travel is like now,â Alton asked. âThink beyond technology to the ideas about society and scientific progress. Like we did with Frankenstein.â
As always, Alton couldnât help but stare at their crudely de-augmented faces. When they were but fresh-faced recruits -- some still children -- Hagen insisted his people implant biosynthetic nanochips that equipped them with VR/AR, AI, GPS, comms, weapons control, multi-spectrum vision, and who knew what the hell else. Their augmentation allowed Hagen to track and control them, and â Alton supposed â to destroy them if necessary.
Careful extraction of the chips might have left little evidence of their existence. But the med-techs at Gypsum couldnât thin-slice roast beef at a deli counter, let alone perform the meticulous procedure required to remove them without tearing. Alton also suspected that permanent disfigurement was the Neebsâ punishment for insurrection. Even if the camps closed and society reconciled -- as fanciful a notion as Alton moving to Mars -- the rebels would toil in the sub-basement of the new caste system for the rest of their lives.
Their faces now featured rough scars running down their cheeks like permanent tear tracks. Some bore thicker scars on the undersides of their limbs as well, where electric veins had been carved out. EVs were created from biomaterial that melded with bone, muscle, and tendon to forge arms and legs as strong as titanium - Alton had heard their removal was agonizing.
When no one seemed likely to follow Larsâ brave example, Simon came to his usual rescue. âItâs about getting into the mindset of the writers,â he said, turning to face the class like the co-teacher he basically was. âSeeing how they saw. Then identifying problematic thinking.â
âWhat do you mean by âproblematic thinkingâ?â Alton asked.
âBradbury was very imaginative,â said Simon, brushing away his overgrown forelock. âBut when it came to how a Martian civilization might behave, he couldn't escape his 1950s values.â
âRight! As weâve discussed, novels are more than just stories. Theyâre also windows into the thinking of another time.â
As he spoke, Alton gestured to a library of maybe five hundred ratty paperbacks at the rear of their structure. To have them on hand thrilled him. New copies of physical books had been rare even when he was a kid â saving every tree possible had become a mandate, especially in the age of digital ubiquity when even the poorest could access free material. But as a teen he would snatch up tattered volumes down at the North Hollywood Stalls, initially for his own collection, then, later, carefully considering what Kiara might like to read as well.
âReading them now allows us to see how weâve changed,â Simon finished.
âOr how we havenât,â huffed Oliver, another Civvy, through ruddy, middle-aged cheeks.
Damien, a gnarled and intense Nibelung in his early twenties, stabbed a double-jointed finger in the air and said, âMy granddaâ told me the 1950s was the last great time for this country. The last time âeybody knew their place.â
The Neebs murmured their agreement, while Oliver rolled his eyes as though to say that his point had been made. Alton spent a few minutes explaining how social resistance actually did exist back then but was largely repressed.
As he spoke, he found himself glancing at the tall and bony man sitting in the back. His name was Crow, and he was older than most of the Nibelungs in camp, maybe in his mid-30s, though his sallow cheeks, hooded eyes, and chafed face, made it hard to tell. The rumor was that he had been one of Hagenâs top digital infiltrators on the outside, so he was probably a more advanced thinker than his classmates. But he wasnât there for the intellectual engagement. He was there to spy for Lance, Hagenâs lieutenant who ran the Nibelungs in Gypsum.
Watching him take notes, Alton nervously wondered what he found subversive enough from todayâs lecture to report back. Alton constantly worried that Lance would forbid the Neebs to return, and without them there werenât enough pupils to fill a class.
He shook it off. âSo this was Bradburyâs idea of Mars 120 years ago. How might we imagine an alien society today?â
âChinese are Martians now,â said Zane.
Alton forced himself to not wince whenever he looked at Zaneâs savage facial scars.
âWhat do you mean now?â Lars said, pulling his eyes into a squint with his beefy fingers and sticking his front teeth out.
Alton waited while the class guffawed. If he tried to police every racist comment, theyâd never get through a session.
âAnd weâll be fightinâ âem when we get up there,â said Lars. More murmurs of agreement.
âNobodyâs sending the dregs of humanity to the frontier of human discovery,â Oliver said, shifting his bulk towards them. How he stayed overweight with the food they were given remained a mystery to Alton.
âThen we get our own ship, our own colony,â Damien said. âThe Leader will make this happen. Then we start over, keep things pure this time.â
Oliver laughed. âSure, kid.â
âIâm not a kid,â Damien growled.
Alton interjected quickly. âYou donât see a scenario where you could live alongside the Chinese? Theyâve been colonizing and terraforming Mars for five years now. Perhaps we should tread lightly on territory theyâve already established? Why should we be entitled to it?â
Zane jumped in again. âHell no. They'll zap us. Or try to chain us. You know how they do. Best zap them first.â
âHistorically, itâs impossible for one group to maintain indefinite control over another,â Simon said. âYouâre better off trying to live in harmony. We may as well if weâre starting over.â
âOthers failed because they werenât as strong as Nibelungs,â Lars boomed, and a buzz swelled through the room like the birth of a tsunami.
Oliverâs voice went an octave higher in disbelief. âThe Nazis werenât committed? The Soviets? Al Qaeda? The North Koreans? Liang? They all went into the ash bin of history. And Hagen will join them⌠if he hasnât already.â
The room went deadly quiet, and Alton shot Oliver a watch it look.
âHeâs not in the assben,â Damien growled. âHeâll liberate us soon.â
âHow long have you been waiting?â Oliver asked. âTwo years?â
âHeâs been preparing for the final battle,â Zane said. âAnd heâll have lost all tolerance for non-believers like you.â
âAlright,â Alton said, trying not to sound firm and failing. âLetâs get back on track.â
âThey come to this class every week,â Oliver said. âMaybe they should make an effort to actually learn something.â
âYouâre the one that needs a lesson,â Damien said, leaning forward.
Alton looked to Crow for help. He thought Lanceâs lieutenant might intervene if push literally came to shove. But his expression remained unreadable
âEnough,â said Alton. âOr Iâm ending class for the night. And canceling next weekâs too.â He was about to move on, then added, âEverybody learns in their own way, on their own time. Letâs all respect the process.â But he wondered if these Nibelungs ever would learn. If they could learn given their programming. He felt a twinge of shame. He knew a good teacher should never believe a student was beyond reaching.
They relaxed a little, as much of an admission as he would ever get that they enjoyed being here. There was little else in camp to keep them engaged.
As they switched texts on their pads, Alton was grateful that Simon didnât wait to chime in. âSeems like Verne had a little figured out ahead of his time. With rocket technology. Weâre still using rockets more than 200 years later, although of course theyâve changed a lot.â
âHe was famous for that,â said Alton. âHe had lots of ideas about technology that later came true: giant balloons, submarines, inner-planetary expeditions.â Alton listed some of the novels.
âWhat about War of the Worlds?â said Zane.
âThat was H.G Wells.â
âWhatâs that about?â said someone in the back.
âItâs about destroying an alien race that tries to conquer us,â Damien said, grinning. âWe should read that next!â
âYou can read that on your own,â Alton said. Next weekâs book is about war, though. I hope you see how the author criticizes men who try to impose their way of life on others.â He paused, then added, âOf course I would never tell you what you should take from your reading.â
There was a strange nasally sound and Alton was surprised to see that Crow had laughed. Although he rarely reacted to anything, Lanceâs man couldnât help but find this funny. Alton wondered if he should be relieved or more worried than ever.
Afterburn is a bruising, ambitious science fiction novel that marries political unrest, personal betrayal, and the dream of space travel into something far more intimate than its premise first suggests. Set in a future America splintered by racial extremism and state violence, the story follows Alton, a teacher imprisoned in an internment camp alongside captured white nationalist insurgents, as his past and present begin colliding in dangerous ways. What emerges is not just a dystopian thriller, but a story about longing: for freedom, for love, for belonging, and for the version of oneself that existed before history and grief did their damage.
What gives Afterburn its force is the tension between its scale and its ache. The novel has drones, camps, political insurgency, covert operations, and the tantalizing pull of Mars, but its emotional engine is much more human. Alton is not built as a swaggering savior. He is exhausted, wounded, uncertain, and painfully aware of how much of his life has been shaped by other peopleâs convictions. That vulnerability makes him compelling. His relationships, especially the tangled history involving Alex and Kiara, carry the storyâs deepest sting. The result is a novel that often feels less like a conventional futuristic adventure and more like a reckoning with old humiliations, old desires, and the terrible cost of unfinished emotional business.
The strongest sections are the ones that let atmosphere and feeling do the heavy lifting. The camp material is grim and immersive, and the recurring pull of space gives the novel an almost mournful beauty. There is something especially effective about the contrast between humanityâs grandest aspirations and its ugliest instincts. Afterburn understands that technological progress does not guarantee moral progress, and that idea haunts the book in productive ways.
The novelâs length and density work against its momentum. Some passages lean heavily into exposition or ideological argument, and there are stretches where the narrative could be tighter for greater impact. Still, even when it sprawls, it does so with purpose. This is a book willing to wrestle with difficult material rather than sand it smooth.
Afterburn is best suited to readers who like their science fiction politically charged, emotionally wounded, and unafraid to stare directly at the ugliness of power. It is harsh, thoughtful, and at its best deeply affecting.