Read Online Steel Rain by Nyx Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nyx Smith
Tags: Science-Fiction
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shrieking.
And abruptly cuts it short.
The gangway outside is rattling. The door to her little cranny crashes open and there bathed in a pale shade of moonlight is one of Gamma's cutters, a big mother-reaming razorpunk like out of a combat biker trid. Neona squeezes back into her corner and looks frantically around, but there's only one way out. She searches the dark, her mind, her pockets for any kind of a weapon, but she already knows she's got nothing.
"Kept me up all effing night," says the cutter. "Let's go, jackhead."
"Don't... don't hurt me," Neona whimpers.
"Move it, slitch!"
She's shaking so hard she can't hardly stand up. The cutter reaches through the doorway and catches the back of her neck and jerks her ahead, through the doorway and onto the gangway. She stumbles and gasps and snivels so loud it echoes, and then turns and rams the hard macroplast corner of the Invader's casing into the cutter's groin. Terror makes her strong and quick.
The cutter shouts in pain, and he roars " Fraggin BIFF! " but her feet are slapping the gangway to match the pace of her hammering heart and she's down the stairs to ground level before she has time to think about breathing.
She hears other shouts, rattling equipment, pounding boots. Which way? Which way out ? She runs and runs, tearing down passageways, scrambling around corners, banging through doors, tripping and sprawling over mountains of litter and junk. Moonlight glares into her eyes. She scrambles through a jagged hole in a concrete wall and then tumbles down a pile of debris.
When she wakes, she's lying on her back. Her breath is rasping and her nose feels broken. She can't move. Her head's pounding like it's under a fifty-ton pile driver. The crescent moon fills her eyes, burning like a white phosphorus incendiary charge. She can't see the hands holding her wrists and ankles, but through the burning glare of the moon she can just make out the slim figure towering over her, leaning on his mage's wand like a cane.
"Why did you run?" Gamma asks.
She struggles, tries to break free, tries twisting her head around to catch sight of her Fairlight Invader, but it's no use. The hands are too strong, the moon too bright. Already, she can feel Gamma's fingers walking up her spine like a thousand little roaches, forming into a glove, a glove that gives a little tug and makes her straighten her head, a glove that squeezes down slowly, slowly, slowly, till she's sure her skull's going to split under pressure, and the pressure builds and builds, till it's too much, too much to withstand.
"Angel, why did you run?" Gamma asks.
She nearly blacks out. It's hard to think. Hard to remember. The pressure eases a little, but it hurts. Oh, frag, it hurts' . She'd do anything to stop that hurting. Anything at all.
"We have an agreement."
She's grunting, trying to answer, to nod.
"Haven't I treated you well?"
"Sorry . . ." She snivels. "I'm sorry . . ."
"After everything I've done for you."
The pressure eases. She's panting, gasping, breathing. She remembers, too. Everything he's done. When she was bone busted and broke, Gamma took her off the hard-core streets of the Bronx, gave her Matrix work. He gave her space in his doss. He's lining her pockets with fifty nuyen an hour. Why did she run from him? Is she crazy? Brain-fried? She's had it worse, a lot worse. Shick, Gamma's treated her jewel. "You're an ungrateful little wretch."
It's true, but so hard to admit. "Always been . . ."
The glare of the moon subsides. She catches sight of Gamma's head, the buzzcut hair, the impassive Asian features. He smiles softly, faintly, but she can see the subtle sadness in his eyes, the hurt from her betrayal. "I understand," he says in a voice grown tender. "You've had a great deal of hardship. Hard luck. You're so used to running, slot and run, isn't that right? You're afraid to stop running even when you're safe. You're always afraid Mr. Johnson might be just a step behind you."
The
And abruptly cuts it short.
The gangway outside is rattling. The door to her little cranny crashes open and there bathed in a pale shade of moonlight is one of Gamma's cutters, a big mother-reaming razorpunk like out of a combat biker trid. Neona squeezes back into her corner and looks frantically around, but there's only one way out. She searches the dark, her mind, her pockets for any kind of a weapon, but she already knows she's got nothing.
"Kept me up all effing night," says the cutter. "Let's go, jackhead."
"Don't... don't hurt me," Neona whimpers.
"Move it, slitch!"
She's shaking so hard she can't hardly stand up. The cutter reaches through the doorway and catches the back of her neck and jerks her ahead, through the doorway and onto the gangway. She stumbles and gasps and snivels so loud it echoes, and then turns and rams the hard macroplast corner of the Invader's casing into the cutter's groin. Terror makes her strong and quick.
The cutter shouts in pain, and he roars " Fraggin BIFF! " but her feet are slapping the gangway to match the pace of her hammering heart and she's down the stairs to ground level before she has time to think about breathing.
She hears other shouts, rattling equipment, pounding boots. Which way? Which way out ? She runs and runs, tearing down passageways, scrambling around corners, banging through doors, tripping and sprawling over mountains of litter and junk. Moonlight glares into her eyes. She scrambles through a jagged hole in a concrete wall and then tumbles down a pile of debris.
When she wakes, she's lying on her back. Her breath is rasping and her nose feels broken. She can't move. Her head's pounding like it's under a fifty-ton pile driver. The crescent moon fills her eyes, burning like a white phosphorus incendiary charge. She can't see the hands holding her wrists and ankles, but through the burning glare of the moon she can just make out the slim figure towering over her, leaning on his mage's wand like a cane.
"Why did you run?" Gamma asks.
She struggles, tries to break free, tries twisting her head around to catch sight of her Fairlight Invader, but it's no use. The hands are too strong, the moon too bright. Already, she can feel Gamma's fingers walking up her spine like a thousand little roaches, forming into a glove, a glove that gives a little tug and makes her straighten her head, a glove that squeezes down slowly, slowly, slowly, till she's sure her skull's going to split under pressure, and the pressure builds and builds, till it's too much, too much to withstand.
"Angel, why did you run?" Gamma asks.
She nearly blacks out. It's hard to think. Hard to remember. The pressure eases a little, but it hurts. Oh, frag, it hurts' . She'd do anything to stop that hurting. Anything at all.
"We have an agreement."
She's grunting, trying to answer, to nod.
"Haven't I treated you well?"
"Sorry . . ." She snivels. "I'm sorry . . ."
"After everything I've done for you."
The pressure eases. She's panting, gasping, breathing. She remembers, too. Everything he's done. When she was bone busted and broke, Gamma took her off the hard-core streets of the Bronx, gave her Matrix work. He gave her space in his doss. He's lining her pockets with fifty nuyen an hour. Why did she run from him? Is she crazy? Brain-fried? She's had it worse, a lot worse. Shick, Gamma's treated her jewel. "You're an ungrateful little wretch."
It's true, but so hard to admit. "Always been . . ."
The glare of the moon subsides. She catches sight of Gamma's head, the buzzcut hair, the impassive Asian features. He smiles softly, faintly, but she can see the subtle sadness in his eyes, the hurt from her betrayal. "I understand," he says in a voice grown tender. "You've had a great deal of hardship. Hard luck. You're so used to running, slot and run, isn't that right? You're afraid to stop running even when you're safe. You're always afraid Mr. Johnson might be just a step behind you."
The
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