Read Online Sten by Chris Bunch; Allan Cole - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Bunch; Allan Cole
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want?"
"That's right."
"What'ya want?"
"You know how to fight. Foreman—his bullies—don't mess with you."
"Clottin'-A they don't. Learned how to tight-corner all over the galaxy. Boy, I even had some guards training!" The little man beamed proudly. "You want to be taught?"
"That's it."
"Yeah. Yeah. Why not? Ain't nothin' else to do down here.
'Cept wait to die."
Sten hit the TRANSFER switch and input his model, set up as a machining program, into the biomill. Waited until the PROGRAM ACTIVE light went on, then touched the START
button.
Small, medium-power lasers glowed and moved toward the block of metal. Virus sprayed onto the block, and more metal crumbled away. Then the lasers "masked" areas, and the virus shaped that block into the reality of Sten's model.
The shift hours dragged past, and the mill hummed on happily. Once Sten had to shut down when a guard came through. But he didn't stop at Sten's machine.
"Base position. Now. Clot! Stick always goes across your body.
Just above the waist. Then you're ready for any kind of defense."
"What about a knife?"
"You know stick—you'll be able to put that knife about eight inches up the lower intestine of the guy what pulled it on you.
Now. One—swing your left up. Stick's straight up and down. Step in…naw. Naw. Naw! Stick's gonna go into the side of somebody's neck. You ain't askin' to dance with him. Do it again."
An hour before shift-change, the TASK COMPLETE light went on. Sten began flushing the mill's interior with neutralizer. He knew better than to hurry.
"You in a bibshop. Man breaks off a bottle. Comes at you.
What'ya do?"
"Kick him."
"Naw. Naw. Naw. Hurt yourself that way. Throw somethin'.
Anythin'. His arm's low, throw for his face. He's ice-pickin', slide a chair up his groin. Awright. You hit him. He goes back.
What'ya do?"
"Kick. Kneecap. Arch if you can get close. Neck."
"Awright! He goes down. What next?"
"Put his bottle in his face."
"Sten, I'm startin' to get proud of you. Now. Get your tail in the head. Practice for the rest of the off-shift. Next off-shift, I'll show you what to do if you got a knife."
Sten unlatched the work-area cover and lifted out his tool.
His. For the first time in his life, he had something that wasn't borrowed or leased from the Company. That the material cost was a merchant prince's ransom and the machining techniques used enough power for an entire dome made it even sweeter.
Sten held a slim double-edged dagger in his clumsy suit gloves. The skeleton handle was custom-fit for Sten's fingers to curl around in the deadly knife-fighter's grip the little man had taught him.
There was no guard, just serrated lateral grooves between the haft and blade that tapered from 5 cm width down 15 cm to a needle tip. The knife was 22 cm long and only 2.5 cm thick.
It was possibly the deadliest fighting blade that had ever been constructed. The crystal tapered to a hair-edge barely 15
molecules wide, and the weight of the blade alone was enough pressure to cut a diamond in half.
Sten tucked the knife in an unused suit storage pocket. He already had the sheath built. Hite had done that for him.
He and Sten had hidden out in a normal-environment disused area. He'd put Sten out with a central anesthetic. And then delicately gone to work.
The sheath was inside Sten's lower arm. With pirated microsurgery tools, Hite laid back a section of Sten's skin down to the dermis. He put an undercoat of living plaskin next to the subcutaneous tissue, then body-cemented into place the alloy U-curve that Sten had already built. That would keep the knife's blade from touching anything—including the U-curve.
A wrist muscle was rerouted across the mouth of the sheath to keep the knife in place. Then Hite replaced the layer of dermis and epidermis over the surgical modifications and body-cemented Sten back together.
It took several cycles to heal. But Hite was satisfied the plaskin was nonirritative, and the skin over the
"That's right."
"What'ya want?"
"You know how to fight. Foreman—his bullies—don't mess with you."
"Clottin'-A they don't. Learned how to tight-corner all over the galaxy. Boy, I even had some guards training!" The little man beamed proudly. "You want to be taught?"
"That's it."
"Yeah. Yeah. Why not? Ain't nothin' else to do down here.
'Cept wait to die."
Sten hit the TRANSFER switch and input his model, set up as a machining program, into the biomill. Waited until the PROGRAM ACTIVE light went on, then touched the START
button.
Small, medium-power lasers glowed and moved toward the block of metal. Virus sprayed onto the block, and more metal crumbled away. Then the lasers "masked" areas, and the virus shaped that block into the reality of Sten's model.
The shift hours dragged past, and the mill hummed on happily. Once Sten had to shut down when a guard came through. But he didn't stop at Sten's machine.
"Base position. Now. Clot! Stick always goes across your body.
Just above the waist. Then you're ready for any kind of defense."
"What about a knife?"
"You know stick—you'll be able to put that knife about eight inches up the lower intestine of the guy what pulled it on you.
Now. One—swing your left up. Stick's straight up and down. Step in…naw. Naw. Naw! Stick's gonna go into the side of somebody's neck. You ain't askin' to dance with him. Do it again."
An hour before shift-change, the TASK COMPLETE light went on. Sten began flushing the mill's interior with neutralizer. He knew better than to hurry.
"You in a bibshop. Man breaks off a bottle. Comes at you.
What'ya do?"
"Kick him."
"Naw. Naw. Naw. Hurt yourself that way. Throw somethin'.
Anythin'. His arm's low, throw for his face. He's ice-pickin', slide a chair up his groin. Awright. You hit him. He goes back.
What'ya do?"
"Kick. Kneecap. Arch if you can get close. Neck."
"Awright! He goes down. What next?"
"Put his bottle in his face."
"Sten, I'm startin' to get proud of you. Now. Get your tail in the head. Practice for the rest of the off-shift. Next off-shift, I'll show you what to do if you got a knife."
Sten unlatched the work-area cover and lifted out his tool.
His. For the first time in his life, he had something that wasn't borrowed or leased from the Company. That the material cost was a merchant prince's ransom and the machining techniques used enough power for an entire dome made it even sweeter.
Sten held a slim double-edged dagger in his clumsy suit gloves. The skeleton handle was custom-fit for Sten's fingers to curl around in the deadly knife-fighter's grip the little man had taught him.
There was no guard, just serrated lateral grooves between the haft and blade that tapered from 5 cm width down 15 cm to a needle tip. The knife was 22 cm long and only 2.5 cm thick.
It was possibly the deadliest fighting blade that had ever been constructed. The crystal tapered to a hair-edge barely 15
molecules wide, and the weight of the blade alone was enough pressure to cut a diamond in half.
Sten tucked the knife in an unused suit storage pocket. He already had the sheath built. Hite had done that for him.
He and Sten had hidden out in a normal-environment disused area. He'd put Sten out with a central anesthetic. And then delicately gone to work.
The sheath was inside Sten's lower arm. With pirated microsurgery tools, Hite laid back a section of Sten's skin down to the dermis. He put an undercoat of living plaskin next to the subcutaneous tissue, then body-cemented into place the alloy U-curve that Sten had already built. That would keep the knife's blade from touching anything—including the U-curve.
A wrist muscle was rerouted across the mouth of the sheath to keep the knife in place. Then Hite replaced the layer of dermis and epidermis over the surgical modifications and body-cemented Sten back together.
It took several cycles to heal. But Hite was satisfied the plaskin was nonirritative, and the skin over the
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