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152 pages

English

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Leon Dabrowski is an outstanding physicist - a genius to those who know him. When he makes an astonishing breakthrough at a nuclear research facility, he realises that the world sits on the cusp of unlimited energy for the foreseeable future. However, Leon and his technical colleagues receive no accolades, no rewards. Instead they are dragged into the murky world of industrial espionage and treated like criminals, while Leon's fiancee, the gifted mathematician Magda Tomala, finds herself a prisoner in a subterranean sexual fantasy complex.How can Leon find his beloved Magda? Abandoning his vital work, he must assist a Polish special police unit in their attempts to smash an international sex trafficking operation.Working undercover from within an emerging London cult society, Leon starts his covert researches into the city's sophisticated world of prostitution for the super-rich. But by now, he is a fugitive. Everyone wants to know the whereabouts of Leon Dabrowski - the oligarch he works for, his beleaguered colleagues, the madame of a brothel owned by the Russianmafiya. . . dangerous people are hunting for him. And there is one among them who harbours a shocking secret about Leon's early life.

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	29 mars 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838598846
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Master of Starlight

KEITH SHORT
Copyright © 2019 Keith Short

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781838598846

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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE

PART 1 - LONDON 1990
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10

PART 2 – EUROPE 2020
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25

PART 3 – 2020
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40

PART 4 – 2021
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47

EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
London 2060
‘I can’t wait to get in there, Gunther. I gather it’s going to take at least three hours to get around these exhibits. What are we waiting for?’
‘Hold on, young man, there’s plenty of time for all that. I’d just like to take this in before we start the tour. The story behind this statue is even more fascinating than the one we’re going to see inside the museum, you realise?’
‘No, I don’t realise. Come on, let’s go. This was your idea for a day out, after all. I can’t believe it all started here and we’ve made all this progress since the third decade of the millennium. Don’t you find that fascinating? Aren’t you excited? Why are we waiting?’
‘Just indulge an old man. Come, sit by me for a while.’ He tapped the Chesterfield’s green padded upholstery and, once the frustrated youngster joined him, he pointed up to the statue in front of them. Together with the sparse seating arrangements that surrounded it, it was the only feature in the entrance hall of the magnificent old building. ‘You can see what a powerful man he was in the physical sense. And despite what the science historians would have you believe, he was a great man in every other sense. He had vision and he held his nerve. He backed the man , as Oppenheimer would have said.’
‘I don’t know about that. Rumour has it he made his money from the sex trade and other shady enterprises.’
Gunther shrugged his shoulders and laughed. ‘Maybe he did. Who knows? But if it wasn’t for him committing his fortune to what was a fading dream for others, we’d still be reliant on the old thermal reactors. And you also have to remember, we were still burning coal and gas to produce our electricity in those days.’
The young man gestured towards the plaque on the podium beneath the statue. ‘He must have been self-opinionated to have his statue inscribed with that.’
‘It was Leon Dabrowski himself who commissioned the statue and composed that testimony. In one way, you see, Vladimir Chekhov really was the father of nuclear fusion power. And the true history isn’t inside that museum over there. It began just a few miles from where we are now. Fate can intervene from the most unlikely corner . . .’

PART 1 - LONDON 1990
Starlight Lost
CHAPTER 1
Routine day over, feet up in front of mindless television and a relaxing cup of tea. Nothing life changing about that, she thought as she hung her nurse’s coat at the end of the row of empty pegs. Changing her life was something she could well do with but, at the same time, something she couldn’t bear to contemplate tonight. In fact, the prospect of a quiet evening at home made her sigh inwardly and smile, as if she’d just settled into a hot bath full of bubbles for the first time. But first there were routine checks to be made. She stared at the closed door at the end of the corridor and the trepidation slowly rising in her gut swilled away any thoughts of contentment. It would take only a few moments to cross her living room floor to the kitchen and seconds to check that the door to the outside was locked. But until she could be sure, she couldn’t relax. Nerves jangling and heartbeat rising, Jean Douglas opened her living room door – and threw her hands to the sides of her head.
‘Robert!’
He was comatose on his back, his eyes staring through their liquid glaze to whatever it was he saw beyond her. A dirty spoon and saucer, a ripped-open plastic bag and a cigarette lighter – scattered among the discarded garments to either side. The leather belt he used as a tourniquet hung loose around his upper arm and, on his emaciated lower arm, a hypodermic needle dangled from one of his barely visible veins. Jean started sobbing. She’d seen it all before, but it was usually outside in the shed or in the yard, not in her living room, for God’s sake. Deep down, she always knew it would come to this one day. But that didn’t prevent the shock and the anger that came with it. Inside her home – her precious home. She had to scream.
‘You bastard! You lousy, useless smack-head! How could you do this in my house?’ Snorting with anger, she bent down hands on knees and snarled into his ear, ‘You and that sister of yours don’t pay a single penny for the privilege of living here. You even have me borrowing from the bank to pay your court fines and keep you in those stinking rags you wear. And God knows what you’re doing with the food in my cupboards. You’re not eating it, that’s for sure. Do you hear me?’
But Robert wasn’t listening. She could tell he was incapable of that. And even if he heard her ranting, what would he care? Jean was already weary from her long day at work. Now, exhausted from her futile tirade, she sank to her knees and looked at the debris surrounding her. Robert’s head rolled to one side. Powerless to do anything, she could only watch as bright yellow bile oozed from his open mouth and pooled on the carpet. Numb with despair, her head dropped into her hands. Can’t go on any more. But she had to keep going, she told herself. What else could she do? I still love him. Resigning herself yet again to her thankless task as a mother, she did what she always did – at least this time there was no need to haul his limp and withered body back into the house. She carefully removed the needle from his arm and summoned up the strength to lift her nineteen-year-old son on to the settee. She sniffed as she wiped away the tears of agony with the back of her hand, picked up the spoon and lighter and began her ritual clear-up once again.

Jean hadn’t seen Robert for three days. Nothing unusual about that and there was little point in worrying. They say that drug addicts possess a natural ability for survival; they always know where they can find shelter among other users – another fix if they’re lucky. Robert had even apologised before he left, said he wouldn’t fix at home again if he could keep his house key. She couldn’t trust him, of course. But this evening she had a reassuring feeling inside that she was returning home to an empty and peaceful house. She closed the front door behind her and removed her coat. What was that clunking noise? She stood still and listened. There it is again. It was coming from upstairs. Oh God, he’s in the bedroom . She threw her coat to the floor and scurried up the stairs two at a time. This is the last time. He’s getting no more chances. She burst through the bedroom door and stopped dead.
‘Mary! What are you doing?’
Her daughter – in bed with a stranger? And what a filthy mess. The stench of stale alcohol and sour body odour made her want to vomit. She covered her mouth and nose as the scruffy middle-aged man threw back the sheets to reveal his nakedness and brazenly walked towards her. He smiled at her, displaying his uneven black teeth as if proud of them. ‘You all right, love?’ he said, showing no shame as he stepped into his urine-stained Y-fronts.
Jean turned towards Mary in bewilderment. Why? she tried to say, but the pointless question wouldn’t leave her mouth. Mary reached across to the bedside table for her cigarettes and lighter, eased herself up on the pillow and lit a cigarette. Her daughter’s breasts, reddened with scratches from the pawing they’d no doubt just received, the filthy assailant who was responsible perched at the foot of the bed and nonchalantly pulling on his socks – it was all too much.
‘You dirty slut! My bed, my bedroom. You didn’t even have the decency to use your own.’
‘My own bed wasn’t big enough, Ma,’ Mary said, as if deliberately goading her mother. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve left y