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Charlie Thorpe-Campbell is the greatest RAMrunner the world has ever seen - and he knows it. On the verge of retirement from the sport, he is defending his title as champion of the annual orbital race one final time when he's suddenly hurtling away into deep space.
Charlie's unscheduled voyage through a wormhole ends with a crashlanding on a most unusual planet, with scores of spacecraft from all corners of the universe in orbit. Seeking help, he heads toward what appears to be civilization, unaware of the horrors waiting for him there....
Once inside the great, orbcovered city, Charlie is thrust into intergalactic competition by a bloodthirsty alien race. When he discovers he can use his unique abilities to save not only himself, but the entire galaxy, will he face up to the challenge - or run from it?
his eight years of RAM-running, he’d never encountered even a slight mishap in orbit trajectory or otherwise. “Well I think this qualifies.” After praying he hadn’t screwed up the calculations, Charlie cleared his throat and fixed his glare on the tiny light-grey convoy inching over the amber planet. He had some catching up to do. Maybe the farewell isn’t all that is, not yet. His jaw clenched while he warmed up on the jog spot. In less than a minute, he was running at his most rhythmic and
technologically advanced species, Charlie. Think of it this way—anyone who makes it to this planet’s surface has at least some working knowledge of spaceflight. That capability in itself demands a certain intellectual brio. Now, the more a species advances technologically, the more reliant it becomes on that technology, and the less it requires physical strength. Agility, muscularity and adaptability to one’s natural environment are no longer prerequisites for survival. The brain becomes the only
When I’m not running, I have my own political views and concerns, but they never, I repeat, never follow me onto the track. All of my fellow runners are sponsored by major corporations, and I assure you we would not be here without them. So accuse whoever you like of whatever you like, Mr. Kim, but what Latigo Enterprises does on Mars is between them and the Martian authorities, not you and I, here in this great arena, on this day of days.” Muted applause—again not the passionate support he’d
striking nightmare, but a part of him couldn’t buy it. Too much time had passed since he’d last seen this place, wherever it was. Sorcha chose the picnic spots. He thought it might be somewhere near Scourie in Northwest Scotland. They’d spent a few days of the summer there. The thistles seemed to fit. But when the hell was this? Whatever else he’d dreamt, he hadn’t imagined running in the Tonne. He’d endured too many gruelling fitness sessions for that to be a whim of the mind. He got up and
in his mouth, while the rocket explosion had won the day. How many others, in the history of the games, had come up with that solution? It didn’t matter. Eleven, twelve, thirteen…eighteen lives had been saved by the most mercurial means. Grit, improvisation, a touch of insanity? Blake had been right all along. About the insanity part, that was. * * * As the unseen energy force lifted them all from the arena toward the shiny bare-ribbed rafters, the levitation sensation felt somewhere between