Matthew Medney, former Heavy Metal magazine CEO and current founder of the invigorating new sci-fi fantasy publishing house Gungnir Books, is embarking on a futuristic fable next year with "Existence Equation," a provocative speculative fiction novel that poses topical questions regarding artificial intelligence, cybernetics, immortality, and our quest to conquer the stars.
Medney ("Beyond Kuiper") and co-author Don Macnab-Stark have crafted an intelligent examination of the human condition in the 23rd century as it surges into an existential era of decision, and we’ve got an exclusive excerpt and book trailer premiere that reveal the project's universal appeal.
There's even a trailer for it. I know, since when does a book get a trailer? Check it out above.
It’s the saga of a teenager in the year 2293 named Liam Kerr who must make the life-altering decision to traverse the heavens as an emotionless android hybrid like his space racing idol, Larkin Downey, or live out his natural biological years on Earth until they expire at the age of 60.
Now strap in for our exclusive chapter excerpt from Gungnir Books' "Existence Equation," which lands in bookstores and online retailers on May 5, 2026.
Existence Equation - Exclusive excerpt
“It's a good night for speed racing.”
Larkin Downey looked up at the sky. Streaks of iridescent color blazed a trail from horizon to horizon. The green, purple, and orange hues then softly began to fade into the darkening night sky.
Larkin grunted and said nothing. The colors shimmered on his slick metal limbs.
“C'mon. Clear skies, almost no wind, and just enough rain earlier to damp down the dust. What's not to like about that?”
Ricard stared at Larkin’s smooth android face, looking for a reaction, anything to reveal his thoughts, but Larkin’s expression never varied; there was nothing to betray what he might be thinking, let alone feeling. He simply stared out into the desert, visualizing and recalling the course, running the race in his mind for the fiftieth time.
Ricard, a loose-limbed bipedal with nimble fingers and a slim body, tapped the speed racer with a wrench. “Whatever. She’s ready to go when you are.”
The sound of revving engines was slowly building up around them; the smell of unburned fuel hung heavy in the air. Ricard shook his head in irritation. “So, you gonna check her out, or you gonna stand there looking cool and inscrutable all frecking day?”
Larkin finally moved, turning his head and scanning Ricard with his cold blue eyes. “Don’t you ever stop talking?”
Ricard gave a nervous laugh. “You know me, man, I always get nervous before a race.” He grinned. “I remember when you used to look forward to these things, but these days, even if you had a pulse I bet it would be as slow and steady as a deep space hibernation pod.”
Again, Larkin gave a non-committal grunt.
“Really? Don’t you feel the buzz?”
Larkin placed a hand on the fuselage of his speed racer, a slick silver and blue bullet that Ricard had built from scratch. “It’s running a bit rough.”
Ricard grinned. “Nah, that’s not rough you’re feeling, my man, that’s raw, latent power just waiting to be unleashed.”
Larkin looked at Ricard for the first time. “You did it? You fixed the feedback relay?”
Ricard couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He leaned into the cockpit and pointed at a small black switch. “Just toggle that and you’ll instantly get a burn— 20 percent extra power—for around ten seconds.”
“How many shots do I get out of it?”
“Three. But if you run it too long, you’ll burn the whole damn rig out and come grinding to a halt.”
Larkin nodded. “Got it. Ten seconds. Twenty percent. Three times.” The rumble and growl of the other racers’ engines was growing louder by the minute.
Larkin looked around the pits, at the melee of machines, racers, and mechanics, then back at Ricard. “Everyone’s heading towards the start line.”
“Yeah, time to roll,” agreed Ricard. “Oh, and one other thing. I rigged the relay so that when you activate it, there’ll be a quick blast of smoke from your tailpipes. It’s enough to make anyone in your wake have to slow down for a second, but you can claim ignorance and blame it on your dodgy mechanic.”
Larkin’s eyes gleamed a little brighter for a moment, the closest he came to showing any emotion. “Underhanded and ingenious. I like it.”
Ricard gave a mock bow, his long arms sweeping across the ground. “Words that should be inscribed on my epitaph.”
“Indeed.”
With an agile leap, Larkin jumped into the cockpit. He scanned the instruments.
Ricard leaned his head into the cockpit. “All good?”
Larkin nodded. “All good. See you at the finish.”
“Be careful,” Ricard reminded him. “You’ve got a target on your back after some of the stunts you've pulled lately.”
Larkin gave him his deadpan look. “When aren't I careful?”
Ricard stepped back. “Always?”
As Ricard straightened up, Larkin gently eased the throttle forward, and the racer glided towards the starting line. Ricard watched him all the way out of the hangar, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Good luck…” he said softly.
The grid was already starting to fill up with machines of all shapes, sizes, colors, and designs. Some were as sleek as a stiletto, while others had all the brutal subtlety of a thirty-pound sledgehammer. They all had one thing in common: they were designed to go fearsomely fast.
The course was a mix of open desert, narrow box canyons, high plateaus and even a few tunnels. This meant that no one design could dominate every race. Each machine had its strengths and weaknesses, meaning that the skill and adaptivity of the driver determined who crossed the finish line first.
Larkin found his place on the grid, then throttled back. He usually started nearer the front, but he’d had a so-so qualifying run, so he was in the third row. Not only had his ailerons been jamming, which slowed him down through the canyons, but he had found himself strangely distracted. His mind was filled with the sort of soul-searching thoughts that normally only visited him late at night when he was alone and his brain was freewheeling. At such times, he recalled his life on Earth, his life before he became an android. Even now, he found them returning to him—the shades of self-doubt and questions about his very existence. Why was he putting his life on the line yet again when the universe still held so many wonders, so much mystery?
“If you had a skin face, I’d say you looked like shit, Downey.”
Larkin turned to his left and stared into the blank insect eyes of his great rival, Sedulous. “You’re a fine one to talk.”
Sedulous made a loud cawing noise that Larkin had learned was his version of laughter. “Is it fear you are feeling?” croaked Sedulous. “Or are you just anticipating the embarrassment you will feel when I beat you. Again.”
In a rivalry going back several years, neither Larkin nor Sedulous had ever had the upper hand for long—until recently. Sedulous had won their last three encounters, the longest winning streak either of them had ever enjoyed, and the pain of defeat had registered even in Larkin’s emotional void.
"Winning isn’t everything." Larkin's voice was barely audible above the roar of engines.
Sedulous stared at him for a long moment, unreadable, then suddenly gave another loud, cawing laugh. “You’re right. It isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.” He turned to scan his instruments and made a minor adjustment. “I’ll wait for you at the finish line. Please don’t make me wait too long, I don't want to miss the medal ceremony.”
Larkin tried to come up with a witty riposte but came up empty. He glanced up at the starting gantry. The large digital clock was ticking down the final thirty seconds of its countdown. All around him, the other racers—forty in total—were running through their final checks, securing their goggles in place, and praying to whatever deity they thought might help them win or at least keep them alive.
Larkin slid his goggles down over his eyes. Although he was an android and impervious to the effects of wind on his eyes, speed racers spent most of the time gliding just a few feet off the ground, and as a consequence, would be awash with clouds of abrasive sand and grit from Kurin’s desert landscape.
As he glanced upwards, he was greeted by the strange experience of seeing his own image on the giant vid-screens, as the commentators introduced the racers to the baying crowds that filled the grandstand at the start/finish line.
Was Ricard actually right? Was he looking even more inscrutable than ever? Androids displayed few emotions at the best of times, but lately Larkin had been experiencing a growing feeling of ennui, needing increasing levels of stimulants—whether external chemical shots or internally generated hormones— to feel anything at all. The countdown clock was almost finished.
"Three, two, one…”
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