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Authors: Chris Bunch; Allan Cole
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sheath would continue to regenerate.
The shift buzzer in Sten's suit blatted. Sten shut down the mill and headed for the lock.
Nobody knew exactly what Hite had done to get stuck in Exotic Section. It was known that he'd been a pioneer-world doctor. It was known that he'd taken a Tech contract on Vulcan for an unknown reason. And it was obvious that he'd done something incredibly wrong.
Hite never told anyone—including Sten—about what he'd done.
He was not only the only medic the Migs had access to but he'd been in Exotic Section for years.
He was also the only friend Sten ever had.
"Sten, lad. The problem with you is you don't laugh enough."
"Laugh? I'm stuck in the anus of Vulcan…everybody's trying to kill me—they're gonna succeed—and you want me to laugh?"
"Of course, boy. Because what could be funnier than all that?"
"I don't get it."
Hite leaned closer. "It's because the gods hate you.
Personally."
Sten considered. Then smiled slowly. And started laughing.
"Huh?"
"What's there to laugh about? You're up the arse of Vulcan and everyone's trying to kill you. I'd get worried if I were you."
Sten stared at him. Then shook his head and started howling.
In the shiftroom, Sten fed high-pressure disinfectant into his suit and resealed it. He waited. There was no leak. Sten dumped the disinfectant into the recycler and pegged the suit. In the Exotic Section, elderly vacuum worksuits, condemned by the Techs, were used. Leaks were very common. And in an area, there wasn't time to patch them. Sten yawned and pushed through the Barracks toward his bunk.
The knife was tucked inside Sten's arm. His open hand held it securely in position. Sten couldn't wait to show it to Hite.
Barracks smelled like The Row. Cubed and recubed. With no Sociopatrolmen. A couple of hulks were going through the meager effects of a young boy who lay sprawled in a pool of blood. One of them grinned up at Sten. "Got fresh meat in today."
Sten shrugged and kept walking. The ethanol stand was crowded as always. He stopped by his bunk. The female Mig who bunked over him had his blanket hung as a curtain, and paired grunts came from behind it.
Sten headed for Hite's square. The old man had been sick, and Sten hoped he was feeling semihuman. He wanted to ask him more about Pioneer Sector.
There was a knot of men around Hite's bunk. The foreman and some of his toadies. And beside them, a robot trundle.
Two of the thugs picked up a gray, frail, still form from the bunk and dumped it unceremoniously onto the trundle.
Sten broke into a run as the trundle automatically swiveled away. He smashed a fist into its control panel and the trundle stopped.
"Ain't no use," one of the toadies said. "Ol' basser's dead."
"What happened?"
"Guess he just died. Natural causes."
Sten started to turn…then pulled Hite's body over.
Blood still oozed from the slash in Hite's throat. Sten looked up at the foreman.
"He di'n't want to go on-shift. So, like Malek says, he just died.
Naturally."
The foreman made the mistake of laughing.
Sten came off the floor at the foreman. One thug body-checked him and Sten went to the floor, twisted, and came back to his feet.
And the little man echoed in his brain. You're never angry.
You never want anything. You are a response without a mind .
A toady moved in, and Sten's foot lashed. The man's kneecap shattered audibly and he dropped.
"Take him."
The toadies surged forward. One huge man had Sten from behind, crushing him with both hands. Sten wiggled an arm free and swung a fist back, thumb extended.
The tough dropped Sten and howled back, blood pouring from his eye socket.
Sten spun, his foot coming wide against the base of the bully's neck. It snapped and the man crashed to the deck.
"Get him, you clots!" the foreman thundered.
The two men left looked at the foreman and at Sten, trying to decide which was worse. One of the men ripped a bunk support free, and the second man's hand snaked into his pocket
The shift buzzer in Sten's suit blatted. Sten shut down the mill and headed for the lock.
Nobody knew exactly what Hite had done to get stuck in Exotic Section. It was known that he'd been a pioneer-world doctor. It was known that he'd taken a Tech contract on Vulcan for an unknown reason. And it was obvious that he'd done something incredibly wrong.
Hite never told anyone—including Sten—about what he'd done.
He was not only the only medic the Migs had access to but he'd been in Exotic Section for years.
He was also the only friend Sten ever had.
"Sten, lad. The problem with you is you don't laugh enough."
"Laugh? I'm stuck in the anus of Vulcan…everybody's trying to kill me—they're gonna succeed—and you want me to laugh?"
"Of course, boy. Because what could be funnier than all that?"
"I don't get it."
Hite leaned closer. "It's because the gods hate you.
Personally."
Sten considered. Then smiled slowly. And started laughing.
"Huh?"
"What's there to laugh about? You're up the arse of Vulcan and everyone's trying to kill you. I'd get worried if I were you."
Sten stared at him. Then shook his head and started howling.
In the shiftroom, Sten fed high-pressure disinfectant into his suit and resealed it. He waited. There was no leak. Sten dumped the disinfectant into the recycler and pegged the suit. In the Exotic Section, elderly vacuum worksuits, condemned by the Techs, were used. Leaks were very common. And in an area, there wasn't time to patch them. Sten yawned and pushed through the Barracks toward his bunk.
The knife was tucked inside Sten's arm. His open hand held it securely in position. Sten couldn't wait to show it to Hite.
Barracks smelled like The Row. Cubed and recubed. With no Sociopatrolmen. A couple of hulks were going through the meager effects of a young boy who lay sprawled in a pool of blood. One of them grinned up at Sten. "Got fresh meat in today."
Sten shrugged and kept walking. The ethanol stand was crowded as always. He stopped by his bunk. The female Mig who bunked over him had his blanket hung as a curtain, and paired grunts came from behind it.
Sten headed for Hite's square. The old man had been sick, and Sten hoped he was feeling semihuman. He wanted to ask him more about Pioneer Sector.
There was a knot of men around Hite's bunk. The foreman and some of his toadies. And beside them, a robot trundle.
Two of the thugs picked up a gray, frail, still form from the bunk and dumped it unceremoniously onto the trundle.
Sten broke into a run as the trundle automatically swiveled away. He smashed a fist into its control panel and the trundle stopped.
"Ain't no use," one of the toadies said. "Ol' basser's dead."
"What happened?"
"Guess he just died. Natural causes."
Sten started to turn…then pulled Hite's body over.
Blood still oozed from the slash in Hite's throat. Sten looked up at the foreman.
"He di'n't want to go on-shift. So, like Malek says, he just died.
Naturally."
The foreman made the mistake of laughing.
Sten came off the floor at the foreman. One thug body-checked him and Sten went to the floor, twisted, and came back to his feet.
And the little man echoed in his brain. You're never angry.
You never want anything. You are a response without a mind .
A toady moved in, and Sten's foot lashed. The man's kneecap shattered audibly and he dropped.
"Take him."
The toadies surged forward. One huge man had Sten from behind, crushing him with both hands. Sten wiggled an arm free and swung a fist back, thumb extended.
The tough dropped Sten and howled back, blood pouring from his eye socket.
Sten spun, his foot coming wide against the base of the bully's neck. It snapped and the man crashed to the deck.
"Get him, you clots!" the foreman thundered.
The two men left looked at the foreman and at Sten, trying to decide which was worse. One of the men ripped a bunk support free, and the second man's hand snaked into his pocket
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