Read Online Solaris Rising 1.5 by Ian Whates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Whates
Tags: Science-Fiction
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low to avoid being blown off the airship altogether, he crawled back towards the tail fin and found a maintenance hatch set into the fabric at its base. He pulled the hatch open and climbed down an aluminium ladder into the shadowy interior.
The outer envelope of the airship housed a number of helium gas bags, with walkways and cargo spaces wedged between them. The air was dark and cold in there, like a cave. Moving as quickly as his protesting limbs would allow, Napoleon made his way shakily across a catwalk and down another ladder to the access panel leading to the control gondola slung beneath the main hull. As he dropped into the cabin, the pilot—a scruffy young technician sipping coffee at a cup-strewn computer console—turned to him in amazement.
“Where did you come from?”
Clutching the torn sleeve of his snakeskin coat, blood seeping through his fingers, Napoleon glowered. He pointed forward, through the windshield, at a docking mast protruding from a cluster of warehouses near the base of the canyon’s right-hand wall.
“Take us down, boy,” he said.
A S SOON AS the zeppelin’s nose nudged the mast, Napoleon Jones was off and running again. He pushed through the narrow stairwells and crowded walkways that formed the streets of the vertical town. His boots splashed through water; broken glass floors of shattered tile. Down here at the base of the favela, water dripped constantly from the upper levels. Strip lights flickered and sizzled; power cables hung in improvised loops. He passed dirty kitchens, tattoo parlours, street dentists. Blanket-wrapped figures slept in alcoves behind steam pipes. He smelled hot, sour plastic from the corner kiosks, where fabbers made shoes and toys from discarded bottles and cans. He turned right, then left, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Vilca’s men. He moved awkwardly, cradling his hurt arm, trying to keep pressure on the wound.
Reappearing like this, after two decades, had been a mistake. Twenty years ago, he’d been at the top of his game: a celebrated daredevil repeatedly flinging his craft into hyperspace on arbitrary trajectories, just to see where he’d end up. The media called the sport ‘random jumping,’ and it was a dangerous pastime; not all the pilots who took part returned. Those who did, especially those who’d discovered a newly habitable world or the location of an ore-rich asteroid belt, became celebrities. Venture capitalists and would-be entrepreneurs lined up to sponsor them. And in his time, Napoleon Jones had been one of the best and brightest of their number. But he’d been unable to manage the wealth and attention. He fucked up. He developed a tranquilizer dependency and let things slide. He got sloppy. And then one day, he simply disappeared.
Now he was back, he was a fugitive. In his absence, Vilca had gone from a small-time gang boss to de facto ruler of Nuevo Cordoba’s favelas, and he wanted the money Napoleon owed him; money that should have part-financed another random jump into the unknown, but went instead to supporting an extended stay on Strauli, a crossroads world eight light years in the wrong direction.
Napoleon came to the end of a corridor and cut through a laundry area. Hot wet steam filled the air. He squeezed through the narrow spaces between the vats of boiling clothes, searching for another way out. Spilled detergent made the floor slick and slippery. The workers watched him with dull, incurious eyes. They knew better than to get involved. Eventually, he found a hatchway that led into a narrow service duct between one set of buildings and the next. Thick cables ran the length of the floor, beneath a layer of waste paper and discarded packing materials. At the end of the duct, he emerged into daylight. He was on the floor of the canyon now, looking up at the layers of improvised dwellings that towered a hundred metres up the side of the cliff above him.
A tangle of shacks and
The outer envelope of the airship housed a number of helium gas bags, with walkways and cargo spaces wedged between them. The air was dark and cold in there, like a cave. Moving as quickly as his protesting limbs would allow, Napoleon made his way shakily across a catwalk and down another ladder to the access panel leading to the control gondola slung beneath the main hull. As he dropped into the cabin, the pilot—a scruffy young technician sipping coffee at a cup-strewn computer console—turned to him in amazement.
“Where did you come from?”
Clutching the torn sleeve of his snakeskin coat, blood seeping through his fingers, Napoleon glowered. He pointed forward, through the windshield, at a docking mast protruding from a cluster of warehouses near the base of the canyon’s right-hand wall.
“Take us down, boy,” he said.
A S SOON AS the zeppelin’s nose nudged the mast, Napoleon Jones was off and running again. He pushed through the narrow stairwells and crowded walkways that formed the streets of the vertical town. His boots splashed through water; broken glass floors of shattered tile. Down here at the base of the favela, water dripped constantly from the upper levels. Strip lights flickered and sizzled; power cables hung in improvised loops. He passed dirty kitchens, tattoo parlours, street dentists. Blanket-wrapped figures slept in alcoves behind steam pipes. He smelled hot, sour plastic from the corner kiosks, where fabbers made shoes and toys from discarded bottles and cans. He turned right, then left, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Vilca’s men. He moved awkwardly, cradling his hurt arm, trying to keep pressure on the wound.
Reappearing like this, after two decades, had been a mistake. Twenty years ago, he’d been at the top of his game: a celebrated daredevil repeatedly flinging his craft into hyperspace on arbitrary trajectories, just to see where he’d end up. The media called the sport ‘random jumping,’ and it was a dangerous pastime; not all the pilots who took part returned. Those who did, especially those who’d discovered a newly habitable world or the location of an ore-rich asteroid belt, became celebrities. Venture capitalists and would-be entrepreneurs lined up to sponsor them. And in his time, Napoleon Jones had been one of the best and brightest of their number. But he’d been unable to manage the wealth and attention. He fucked up. He developed a tranquilizer dependency and let things slide. He got sloppy. And then one day, he simply disappeared.
Now he was back, he was a fugitive. In his absence, Vilca had gone from a small-time gang boss to de facto ruler of Nuevo Cordoba’s favelas, and he wanted the money Napoleon owed him; money that should have part-financed another random jump into the unknown, but went instead to supporting an extended stay on Strauli, a crossroads world eight light years in the wrong direction.
Napoleon came to the end of a corridor and cut through a laundry area. Hot wet steam filled the air. He squeezed through the narrow spaces between the vats of boiling clothes, searching for another way out. Spilled detergent made the floor slick and slippery. The workers watched him with dull, incurious eyes. They knew better than to get involved. Eventually, he found a hatchway that led into a narrow service duct between one set of buildings and the next. Thick cables ran the length of the floor, beneath a layer of waste paper and discarded packing materials. At the end of the duct, he emerged into daylight. He was on the floor of the canyon now, looking up at the layers of improvised dwellings that towered a hundred metres up the side of the cliff above him.
A tangle of shacks and
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