Read Online Star Risk - 01 Star Risk, Ltd by Chris Bunch - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Bunch
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"Goodnight, get moving!"
He jumped back out of the capsule, as a central door opened.
There were rows of cells, their doors sliding open.
Bewildered men and women, some half-dressed, stumbled out.
One of them was the man Riss recognized as Chas Goodnight.
"Let's haul!" she ordered.
"Right. But what about�"
A door came open, and a guard stepped out, gun in hand.
"Shit," Riss muttered, kneeling, blaster up, in two hands.
She shot him in the chest, saw him fall, and she and Goodnight were running back to where Grok and Baldur waited.
"What about them?" Goodnight managed, jerking a thumb at the other prisoners.
"Good confusion factor," Riss said.
They went back down the corridor past the control capsule, reached the door just as a stair door opened and four guards came out.
Very suddenly Chas Goodnight became a blur. Riss's gun was lifted, the guards' blasters were leveled. The blur smashed into one guard; spun, another was down; knocking a third sideways, and a fourth's neck snapped, the crack very loud to Riss's ears.
The blur came back beside them, then resolved into Chas Goodnight.
Riss one-handed a gas grenade off her harness, held one sensor down, pushed the other, and tossed the grenade into the midst of the sprawled men.
They went up the stairs into the shattered turret, were on the roof, pelting toward the waiting lim.
King was up, behind the controls as they rolled in, the lim already lifting clear of the roof.
She sent the lim diving off the roof, down into the valley below, then, at full, burn-out-the-drive-who-gives-a-rat's nostril speed, toward the small city where a well-paid merchant skipper was holding his ship on a ten-minute tick, supposedly awaiting last-minute orders from the ship's owner.
Riss was breathing as if oxygen was a new, delightful experience.
She unclipped her harness, sagged back on the seat, considered their prize.
Chas Goodnight was equally slumped against the jumpseat.
Even bearded and not that clean, Riss had to admit he was one of the more handsome men she'd seen.
He noted her attention, and smiled gently.
"Now, what I could do to a steak or three," he said, and Riss's slightly romantic thoughts died.
Baldur must have been reading her expression, for he chortled.
"Thanks," Goodnight said. "I owe you."
"That is correct," Grok said.
"So what do I do to pay you back?"
"Nothing much," Riss said. "Just give us a good job recommendation."
"This."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TEN � ^ � Friedrich von Baldur said, "is a hell of a place."
"Little joke?" Grok said. "I think I have read someplace that Sheol equals hell?"
"Little joke," M'chel agreed. "Very little."
Chas Goodnight was staring out at what the Foley-ites, or however they labeled themselves, called the outskirts of a city.
Sheol. Population 5,000, days. Who knew how many, or was sober/straight enough to count nights?
If Sheol ever had a city planning board, they were never among those who were straight. Sheol grew as it grew, and no one cared, since the minute the lodes went dry, the miners would move on. Sheol's population would drop to five senile prostitutes, four bartenders with delirium tremens, three arteriosclerotic retired miners, two historians and one city manager.
Here were shacks, with large signs: LET US ASSAY, SELL YOUR SAMPLES; ADVANCE ON GOOD SAMPLES; GRUBSTAKE YOU AGAINST YOUR NEXT BIG STRIKE; and, as always in any mining town: pawnshop, WE'LL TAKE CARE OF YOUR VALUABLES WHILE YOU'RE PROSPECTING.
There were lots with battered ships, some of which might actually be practical for mining, supply houses with used gear from those who'd guessed wrong, and new supplies for those who hadn't guessed at all yet.
Here and there were houses of the few citizens in service industries not battening off the asteroids.
As their rented lifter got closer to what passed for city center, there were streets entirely devoted to various forms of
He jumped back out of the capsule, as a central door opened.
There were rows of cells, their doors sliding open.
Bewildered men and women, some half-dressed, stumbled out.
One of them was the man Riss recognized as Chas Goodnight.
"Let's haul!" she ordered.
"Right. But what about�"
A door came open, and a guard stepped out, gun in hand.
"Shit," Riss muttered, kneeling, blaster up, in two hands.
She shot him in the chest, saw him fall, and she and Goodnight were running back to where Grok and Baldur waited.
"What about them?" Goodnight managed, jerking a thumb at the other prisoners.
"Good confusion factor," Riss said.
They went back down the corridor past the control capsule, reached the door just as a stair door opened and four guards came out.
Very suddenly Chas Goodnight became a blur. Riss's gun was lifted, the guards' blasters were leveled. The blur smashed into one guard; spun, another was down; knocking a third sideways, and a fourth's neck snapped, the crack very loud to Riss's ears.
The blur came back beside them, then resolved into Chas Goodnight.
Riss one-handed a gas grenade off her harness, held one sensor down, pushed the other, and tossed the grenade into the midst of the sprawled men.
They went up the stairs into the shattered turret, were on the roof, pelting toward the waiting lim.
King was up, behind the controls as they rolled in, the lim already lifting clear of the roof.
She sent the lim diving off the roof, down into the valley below, then, at full, burn-out-the-drive-who-gives-a-rat's nostril speed, toward the small city where a well-paid merchant skipper was holding his ship on a ten-minute tick, supposedly awaiting last-minute orders from the ship's owner.
Riss was breathing as if oxygen was a new, delightful experience.
She unclipped her harness, sagged back on the seat, considered their prize.
Chas Goodnight was equally slumped against the jumpseat.
Even bearded and not that clean, Riss had to admit he was one of the more handsome men she'd seen.
He noted her attention, and smiled gently.
"Now, what I could do to a steak or three," he said, and Riss's slightly romantic thoughts died.
Baldur must have been reading her expression, for he chortled.
"Thanks," Goodnight said. "I owe you."
"That is correct," Grok said.
"So what do I do to pay you back?"
"Nothing much," Riss said. "Just give us a good job recommendation."
"This."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TEN � ^ � Friedrich von Baldur said, "is a hell of a place."
"Little joke?" Grok said. "I think I have read someplace that Sheol equals hell?"
"Little joke," M'chel agreed. "Very little."
Chas Goodnight was staring out at what the Foley-ites, or however they labeled themselves, called the outskirts of a city.
Sheol. Population 5,000, days. Who knew how many, or was sober/straight enough to count nights?
If Sheol ever had a city planning board, they were never among those who were straight. Sheol grew as it grew, and no one cared, since the minute the lodes went dry, the miners would move on. Sheol's population would drop to five senile prostitutes, four bartenders with delirium tremens, three arteriosclerotic retired miners, two historians and one city manager.
Here were shacks, with large signs: LET US ASSAY, SELL YOUR SAMPLES; ADVANCE ON GOOD SAMPLES; GRUBSTAKE YOU AGAINST YOUR NEXT BIG STRIKE; and, as always in any mining town: pawnshop, WE'LL TAKE CARE OF YOUR VALUABLES WHILE YOU'RE PROSPECTING.
There were lots with battered ships, some of which might actually be practical for mining, supply houses with used gear from those who'd guessed wrong, and new supplies for those who hadn't guessed at all yet.
Here and there were houses of the few citizens in service industries not battening off the asteroids.
As their rented lifter got closer to what passed for city center, there were streets entirely devoted to various forms of
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