Read Online Solaris Rising 1.5 by Ian Whates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian Whates
Tags: Science-Fiction
Ads: Link
going to get it, whether you want it or not.”
Napoleon risked a peep over the handrail. This canyon was just one of hundreds arranged in a vast, sprawling delta, carved out over millennia by the patient action of wind and water. Like the tentacles of an enormous squid, the canyons stretched from the mountains at one end of the planet’s solitary supercontinent to the sea at the other, providing the only shade in what was otherwise a pitiless, UV-drenched desert.
Looking down, he saw a cargo zeppelin about to pass beneath the bridge, its broad back like the smooth hump of a browsing whale; and felt the walkway shudder beneath his feet as the street kids advanced, weapons raised.
He should never have come back to Nuevo Cordoba. At his age, he should have known better. He looked longingly down the canyon, towards the distant ocean. The wind tugged at his lizardskin coat. If he could only get back to his starship, the Bobcat , floating tethered at the offshore spaceport, he’d be free. He could finally shake this planet’s dust from his boots. As things stood, though, it looked as if he’d be lucky to make it off this bridge alive; or at least in one piece.
He glanced at the approaching thugs. They were closer now. Emilio swung his machete from side-to-side.
“Nowhere to hide?”
Napoleon glanced from one brother to the other. They were almost within striking distance.
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Shut it,” Faro said.
Below, the zeppelin slid its blunt nose into the shadow of the bridge. Napoleon took the antique flying goggles that hung around his neck and pulled them up over his eyes. Seeing the movement, Emilio stepped forward with a grunt. He scythed his machete around in a powerful swing aimed at Napoleon’s head. Napoleon ducked the blade and came up hard, grasping for the big lad’s arm while the force of the swing still had him off-balance. He slammed Emilio’s wrist against the rail of the bridge, trying to get him to drop the knife. Emilio roared in annoyance and pushed back. The machete came up in a vicious backhand swipe. Napoleon tried to twist out of the way, but the tip of the blade caught him across the right forearm, biting through lizardskin, cotton and flesh.
“Ah!” He staggered back, clutching the stinging wound. He saw more of Vilca’s men arrive. They began to advance across the bridge, and Napoleon knew this was a fight he couldn’t win. As the brothers dropped into fighting crouches on either side of him, ready to hack him to pieces, he braced himself against the handrail.
“Sorry, boys,” he said.
Using his boot heel to push off, he crossed the width of the walkway in two quick steps and launched himself over the opposite rail, into empty air.
T HE WIND TORE at him. His coat flapped. The fall seemed to take forever.
Then his boots hit the top of the zeppelin hard enough to jar his spine. He bounced, sprawling forward in an ungainly tangle of limbs and coattails. For a second, he thought he was going to roll right off the side and fall to his death at the bottom of the canyon. Then his hands and feet found purchase against the fabric and he clung spread-eagled, sucking in great raw lungfuls of cold canyon air.
If he raised his head, he could see, over the curve of the hull, one of the engine nacelles, with the blurred, hissing circle of its black carbon impeller blades. Beyond that, nothing but air and rooftops.
Heart hammering in his chest, he clawed his way back up to the relatively flat surface at the top of the zeppelin. Once there, he rolled onto his back and sat up. He’d skinned his knees and palms. His right arm hurt and his hand and sleeve were slathered and sticky with blood. Worst of all, he’d lost his hat. Still, he was alive. Behind him, Faro and Emilio boggled open-mouthed from the footbridge. He pushed his goggles up onto his forehead and raised a bloody, one-fingered salute.
“So long, fuckers.”
The wind straggled his hair. Staying
Napoleon risked a peep over the handrail. This canyon was just one of hundreds arranged in a vast, sprawling delta, carved out over millennia by the patient action of wind and water. Like the tentacles of an enormous squid, the canyons stretched from the mountains at one end of the planet’s solitary supercontinent to the sea at the other, providing the only shade in what was otherwise a pitiless, UV-drenched desert.
Looking down, he saw a cargo zeppelin about to pass beneath the bridge, its broad back like the smooth hump of a browsing whale; and felt the walkway shudder beneath his feet as the street kids advanced, weapons raised.
He should never have come back to Nuevo Cordoba. At his age, he should have known better. He looked longingly down the canyon, towards the distant ocean. The wind tugged at his lizardskin coat. If he could only get back to his starship, the Bobcat , floating tethered at the offshore spaceport, he’d be free. He could finally shake this planet’s dust from his boots. As things stood, though, it looked as if he’d be lucky to make it off this bridge alive; or at least in one piece.
He glanced at the approaching thugs. They were closer now. Emilio swung his machete from side-to-side.
“Nowhere to hide?”
Napoleon glanced from one brother to the other. They were almost within striking distance.
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Shut it,” Faro said.
Below, the zeppelin slid its blunt nose into the shadow of the bridge. Napoleon took the antique flying goggles that hung around his neck and pulled them up over his eyes. Seeing the movement, Emilio stepped forward with a grunt. He scythed his machete around in a powerful swing aimed at Napoleon’s head. Napoleon ducked the blade and came up hard, grasping for the big lad’s arm while the force of the swing still had him off-balance. He slammed Emilio’s wrist against the rail of the bridge, trying to get him to drop the knife. Emilio roared in annoyance and pushed back. The machete came up in a vicious backhand swipe. Napoleon tried to twist out of the way, but the tip of the blade caught him across the right forearm, biting through lizardskin, cotton and flesh.
“Ah!” He staggered back, clutching the stinging wound. He saw more of Vilca’s men arrive. They began to advance across the bridge, and Napoleon knew this was a fight he couldn’t win. As the brothers dropped into fighting crouches on either side of him, ready to hack him to pieces, he braced himself against the handrail.
“Sorry, boys,” he said.
Using his boot heel to push off, he crossed the width of the walkway in two quick steps and launched himself over the opposite rail, into empty air.
T HE WIND TORE at him. His coat flapped. The fall seemed to take forever.
Then his boots hit the top of the zeppelin hard enough to jar his spine. He bounced, sprawling forward in an ungainly tangle of limbs and coattails. For a second, he thought he was going to roll right off the side and fall to his death at the bottom of the canyon. Then his hands and feet found purchase against the fabric and he clung spread-eagled, sucking in great raw lungfuls of cold canyon air.
If he raised his head, he could see, over the curve of the hull, one of the engine nacelles, with the blurred, hissing circle of its black carbon impeller blades. Beyond that, nothing but air and rooftops.
Heart hammering in his chest, he clawed his way back up to the relatively flat surface at the top of the zeppelin. Once there, he rolled onto his back and sat up. He’d skinned his knees and palms. His right arm hurt and his hand and sleeve were slathered and sticky with blood. Worst of all, he’d lost his hat. Still, he was alive. Behind him, Faro and Emilio boggled open-mouthed from the footbridge. He pushed his goggles up onto his forehead and raised a bloody, one-fingered salute.
“So long, fuckers.”
The wind straggled his hair. Staying
Similar Books
