Read Online Sten by Chris Bunch; Allan Cole - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Bunch; Allan Cole
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and flicked out with a gleaming knife, honed down from a hand chisel.
Sten dropped his right hand limply. Curled his fingers. The knife dropped into his hand. Cold. Comforting.
The man with the steel bar reached Sten first, swinging. Sten brought the knife up…and the blade razored through the steel.
The man gaped for a second at the short steel stub he held, then Sten lashed in and cut his throat like soft butter.
The knifeman feinted once as Sten spun, then lunged for Sten's stomach. Sten overhanded a block…
The foreman stared, horrified, as his toady's arm, still holding a knife in writhing fingers, thudded to the deck.
Then the foreman turned and ran. The wrong way. Down, away from the guard capsule. Toward the areas.
Sten caught him just before the shiftroom. The foreman turned. Holding out both hands. Panicked eyes wide.
Sten slashed once.
The foreman screamed as his guts bulged out, and slopped wetly to the deck.
"That was for nothing."
Sten ran for his suit as alarms began to shrill.
Inside Area 35, Sten could hear the banging on the lock. He wasn't too worried. He'd dumped the lock air and wedged the inner door open. That'd take them some time to get through.
The guards had to figure Sten was trapped. There was no interconnection to another area. All that was outside Area 35
was hard vacuum.
Sten gingerly lifted the viral spray tank out of his bio-lathe and muscled it to the dome's curving outer wall. He flipped the bleed valve open and scrambled back toward the overturned gravsled as the red viral spray hissed against the dome's skin.
The gravsled was the biggest thing he could get into position.
He'd put all of its anchors down, and hoped it would hold when everything went.
The wall cracked and peeled and bubbled out until…the wall dissolved and became exploding blackness. A storm of escaping gasses howled into space. Megacredits' worth of crystal boulders, vehicles, and tools pounded around the hole and then ripped their way out.
The gravsled cracked…anchors tore loose, and then, with a grinding crash, the sled came free and thundered toward the hole. It smashed across the hole but was just too large to fit between two main support beams.
And then the howling stopped. And what was left of Area 35
was silent.
Blood ran down into Sten's eyes where he'd slammed into his suit visor rim. He blinked it away and checked his suit carefully for leaks.
Then he slid around the sled and out the hole.
He swayed, momentarily vertiginous as blackness and harsh starlight rose around him.
One way or another, he was out of Exotic Section. And—he managed to grin wryly—achieving one of his dreams. He was out of Vulcan.
And then he was moving. Away from the hole, away from Exotic Section. Headed North, toward the only hole he could maybe hide in—the sprawling main mass of Vulcan.
He had no idea where he was going. First he took steps, then as he became bolder and realized there was enough magnetism left in the suit's boots to keep him from spinning off into space, in great meters-long bounds.
Several times he almost panicked and looked for a nonexistent hiding place, when repair craft and patrol boats speared down toward him.
Then he realized…all they were worrying about was the sudden expensive explosion kilometers away in Exotics. If they even spotted him, one man in a worksuit wouldn't be connected with the destruction.
Not yet, anyway.
He held out as long as he could—until his suit's air supply began to rasp in his ears, and he could hear the regulator gurgle at him—then went to the first hatchway he saw. Sten guessed it was for routine maintenance.
He fumbled with its catches, and suddenly the hatch slid smoothly open. He crawled in the tiny lock chamber, closed the outer door, and hit the cycle button.
The inner door creaked open—at least there was air on the other side to carry noise—and Sten stepped out.
A long, deserted corridor stretched away before and behind him. Dust
Sten dropped his right hand limply. Curled his fingers. The knife dropped into his hand. Cold. Comforting.
The man with the steel bar reached Sten first, swinging. Sten brought the knife up…and the blade razored through the steel.
The man gaped for a second at the short steel stub he held, then Sten lashed in and cut his throat like soft butter.
The knifeman feinted once as Sten spun, then lunged for Sten's stomach. Sten overhanded a block…
The foreman stared, horrified, as his toady's arm, still holding a knife in writhing fingers, thudded to the deck.
Then the foreman turned and ran. The wrong way. Down, away from the guard capsule. Toward the areas.
Sten caught him just before the shiftroom. The foreman turned. Holding out both hands. Panicked eyes wide.
Sten slashed once.
The foreman screamed as his guts bulged out, and slopped wetly to the deck.
"That was for nothing."
Sten ran for his suit as alarms began to shrill.
Inside Area 35, Sten could hear the banging on the lock. He wasn't too worried. He'd dumped the lock air and wedged the inner door open. That'd take them some time to get through.
The guards had to figure Sten was trapped. There was no interconnection to another area. All that was outside Area 35
was hard vacuum.
Sten gingerly lifted the viral spray tank out of his bio-lathe and muscled it to the dome's curving outer wall. He flipped the bleed valve open and scrambled back toward the overturned gravsled as the red viral spray hissed against the dome's skin.
The gravsled was the biggest thing he could get into position.
He'd put all of its anchors down, and hoped it would hold when everything went.
The wall cracked and peeled and bubbled out until…the wall dissolved and became exploding blackness. A storm of escaping gasses howled into space. Megacredits' worth of crystal boulders, vehicles, and tools pounded around the hole and then ripped their way out.
The gravsled cracked…anchors tore loose, and then, with a grinding crash, the sled came free and thundered toward the hole. It smashed across the hole but was just too large to fit between two main support beams.
And then the howling stopped. And what was left of Area 35
was silent.
Blood ran down into Sten's eyes where he'd slammed into his suit visor rim. He blinked it away and checked his suit carefully for leaks.
Then he slid around the sled and out the hole.
He swayed, momentarily vertiginous as blackness and harsh starlight rose around him.
One way or another, he was out of Exotic Section. And—he managed to grin wryly—achieving one of his dreams. He was out of Vulcan.
And then he was moving. Away from the hole, away from Exotic Section. Headed North, toward the only hole he could maybe hide in—the sprawling main mass of Vulcan.
He had no idea where he was going. First he took steps, then as he became bolder and realized there was enough magnetism left in the suit's boots to keep him from spinning off into space, in great meters-long bounds.
Several times he almost panicked and looked for a nonexistent hiding place, when repair craft and patrol boats speared down toward him.
Then he realized…all they were worrying about was the sudden expensive explosion kilometers away in Exotics. If they even spotted him, one man in a worksuit wouldn't be connected with the destruction.
Not yet, anyway.
He held out as long as he could—until his suit's air supply began to rasp in his ears, and he could hear the regulator gurgle at him—then went to the first hatchway he saw. Sten guessed it was for routine maintenance.
He fumbled with its catches, and suddenly the hatch slid smoothly open. He crawled in the tiny lock chamber, closed the outer door, and hit the cycle button.
The inner door creaked open—at least there was air on the other side to carry noise—and Sten stepped out.
A long, deserted corridor stretched away before and behind him. Dust
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