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A novel by J.A. Lew
In 2033, when a powerful AI system is stolen from what may be the world’s most formidable private company, Elias Ashcroft—heir to the dynasty behind Peregrine Aerospace—is sent to get it back. The mission reads like retrieval. It plays like a trap. To finish it, he must confront his family’s deepest, darkest secrets—the ones they built their empire on, and the ones they swore he would never need to see.
A science-fiction thriller about institutional power, buried history, and the moment duty stops feeling like loyalty and starts feeling like complicity.
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Excerpt from Prologue — The Transfer Window.
Commander Idris Okonkwo disliked the old house because it made disciplined men act superstitious.
Ashcroft House rose out of the Northumberland dark like something that had decided, centuries ago, that weather was for lesser structures. It commanded the headland above the North Sea: house, grounds, private aerodrome, and cliff road all held inside one perimeter. Rain moved across its stone in silver sheets. Wind worried the chimneys and worried the trees and worried the men and the autonomous sentries on the perimeter, but the house stood in it all with the calm of inherited power. The family’s crest above the west gate caught a sweep of light and vanished again.
Idris stepped through the final security door beneath the west wing and into the transfer chamber with two armed operators at his back. The air in the room was cool and dry and smelled faintly of stone dust, machine oil, and old paper. Nothing about the chamber matched the rest of the subterranean complex. Peregrine had added composite shielding, magnetic seals, biometric plates, and sensor racks. But the room itself was older than all of it. The ceiling was ribbed in hand-cut masonry. A narrow iron grate, black with age, ran along one wall. Set into the floor beneath the newer plating, just visible where steel met old stone, was a circle of darker rock. Generations of feet had worn it smooth. When Idris had first seen it, he had estimated the depth of wear against the known age of the house and arrived at a number that the house’s age could not account for. He had not mentioned this to anyone. There were several things about this chamber he had learnt not to look at for too long.
From The Observer — Prologue · © 2026 J.A. Lew
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