Read Online The Starter by Scott Sigler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Scott Sigler
Tags: Science-Fiction
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train seat in front of him and threw himself on Gredok and Coach Hokor.
Quentin saw Doc reach the man, oblivious to the danger, the Harrah’s mouth tentacles reaching for the fresh wound. Doc wanted to help. That was what he did.
Quentin watched the man’s weak, numb hands fumbling at his waist, saw dozens of cops rushing in, cops that wouldn’t be alive in another few seconds.
BLINK
“Down!” Quentin shouted as he reached up and yanked Yitzhak to the floor. He didn’t have to worry about Pine, because Pine was already diving over the seat back, deeper into the train car.
The world filled with noise and crazy motion. The car normally floated an inch or so above the track. The explosion hit the car like a wrecking ball, knocking it to the left where it cleared the lev-track and crashed into the street. The car’s left edge dug into the road’s surface, sending up a shower of sparks before it tilted, throwing Quentin, Yitzhak, and Pine over the pedestrian barrier and into the packed crowd. Quentin’s solid weight crashed into a dense throng of bodies.
He was up and moving almost as soon as he landed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been near a suicide bomber. Those guys often attacked in teams. Life on Micovi had taught Quentin many things, but one thing in particular — on a football field, speed kills , but when bodies are blowing up around you and you need to get away, speed means life .
Quentin ran, his 7-foot-tall, 380-pound athletic body a warning to any sentient stupid enough to get in his way.
• • •
QUENTIN SAT IN A BACK ROOM of the Blessed Lamb bar, darkness surrounding him except for the low light given off by neon beer signs and the glow of the holo-juke. The juke’s colored lights played off the steam rising from his plate of habanero falafel biscuits. He hadn’t felt hungry, but he’d already eaten one plate and was two biscuits into his second. Comfort food, it seemed, lived up to its name.
He didn’t want to be here, here with these people, people that reminded him of the old life. The life back on Micovi. The life of poverty, of constant threat, of subservience. The life of hatred .
Yet when the bomb had gone off, he’d ran straight down Radius Eight to Ring Road Four, then circled back clockwise, up Radius One and to this bar, a place full of Purist Nation expatriates. He hadn’t even thought about going anywhere else, like to the Bootleg Arms or to the Krakens headquarters at the city center. At first he’d told himself that he’d come here simply because it was close, that it was in the nightclub district. Had he been near the stadium, he surely would have fled to the Krakens headquarters. But he would never know, because he hadn’t run to the stadium — he’d run to the Blessed Lamb. He had run to his people, people that instantly took him in, sheltered him, protected him.
What did it mean that he’d come here first? Was he really over his racist upbringing, or was he only deluding himself? When things got dicey, did he just want to run back to what he’d always known?
A man in blue robes quietly walked into the back room. “Your teammates called,” he said. “Someone is coming to get you.”
Quentin nodded. “Thank you, Father Harry.”
Father Harry nodded, then quietly sat down at the table. Father Harry, like most people from the Nation, was no stranger to bombs or bombers. Father Harry came from the same messed-up culture that had made Quentin’s childhood a living hell.
“Quentin, are you feeling better?”
Quentin nodded.
“You were both lucky and smart,” Father Harry said. “Smart to get out of there, lucky because the reports are starting to come in. Fifteen sentients died in that blast, including eight police officers.”
“Was the team doctor killed?”
Father Harry nodded.
Quentin closed his eyes. He hadn’t been great friends with Doc, but the Harrah had been the first non-Human to touch Quentin, to talk to him face-to-face,
Quentin saw Doc reach the man, oblivious to the danger, the Harrah’s mouth tentacles reaching for the fresh wound. Doc wanted to help. That was what he did.
Quentin watched the man’s weak, numb hands fumbling at his waist, saw dozens of cops rushing in, cops that wouldn’t be alive in another few seconds.
BLINK
“Down!” Quentin shouted as he reached up and yanked Yitzhak to the floor. He didn’t have to worry about Pine, because Pine was already diving over the seat back, deeper into the train car.
The world filled with noise and crazy motion. The car normally floated an inch or so above the track. The explosion hit the car like a wrecking ball, knocking it to the left where it cleared the lev-track and crashed into the street. The car’s left edge dug into the road’s surface, sending up a shower of sparks before it tilted, throwing Quentin, Yitzhak, and Pine over the pedestrian barrier and into the packed crowd. Quentin’s solid weight crashed into a dense throng of bodies.
He was up and moving almost as soon as he landed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been near a suicide bomber. Those guys often attacked in teams. Life on Micovi had taught Quentin many things, but one thing in particular — on a football field, speed kills , but when bodies are blowing up around you and you need to get away, speed means life .
Quentin ran, his 7-foot-tall, 380-pound athletic body a warning to any sentient stupid enough to get in his way.
• • •
QUENTIN SAT IN A BACK ROOM of the Blessed Lamb bar, darkness surrounding him except for the low light given off by neon beer signs and the glow of the holo-juke. The juke’s colored lights played off the steam rising from his plate of habanero falafel biscuits. He hadn’t felt hungry, but he’d already eaten one plate and was two biscuits into his second. Comfort food, it seemed, lived up to its name.
He didn’t want to be here, here with these people, people that reminded him of the old life. The life back on Micovi. The life of poverty, of constant threat, of subservience. The life of hatred .
Yet when the bomb had gone off, he’d ran straight down Radius Eight to Ring Road Four, then circled back clockwise, up Radius One and to this bar, a place full of Purist Nation expatriates. He hadn’t even thought about going anywhere else, like to the Bootleg Arms or to the Krakens headquarters at the city center. At first he’d told himself that he’d come here simply because it was close, that it was in the nightclub district. Had he been near the stadium, he surely would have fled to the Krakens headquarters. But he would never know, because he hadn’t run to the stadium — he’d run to the Blessed Lamb. He had run to his people, people that instantly took him in, sheltered him, protected him.
What did it mean that he’d come here first? Was he really over his racist upbringing, or was he only deluding himself? When things got dicey, did he just want to run back to what he’d always known?
A man in blue robes quietly walked into the back room. “Your teammates called,” he said. “Someone is coming to get you.”
Quentin nodded. “Thank you, Father Harry.”
Father Harry nodded, then quietly sat down at the table. Father Harry, like most people from the Nation, was no stranger to bombs or bombers. Father Harry came from the same messed-up culture that had made Quentin’s childhood a living hell.
“Quentin, are you feeling better?”
Quentin nodded.
“You were both lucky and smart,” Father Harry said. “Smart to get out of there, lucky because the reports are starting to come in. Fifteen sentients died in that blast, including eight police officers.”
“Was the team doctor killed?”
Father Harry nodded.
Quentin closed his eyes. He hadn’t been great friends with Doc, but the Harrah had been the first non-Human to touch Quentin, to talk to him face-to-face,
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