By William C. Dietz
Max Maxon is an ex-marine who makes his dwelling with a gun. Sasha Casad is a wealthy youngster attempting to seize the subsequent spaceship domestic. Max's activity is to get her there alive. Somebody's attempting to cease them-somebody with lots of funds and firepower. that does not trouble Max. a freelance is a freelance. opposed to all odds, he'll satisfy this one. after which he will make a person pay.
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I did as I was told. The man looked at my head and nodded. ” He turned toward his partner. “No problem, Gert. This guy’s got enough metal in his head to build a Class A shuttle. ” The woman nodded, stared at my head as if it was the first one she’d ever seen, and allowed us to join the passengers in the holding area. It had been furnished with the same low, crouching furniture that graced the rest of the spaceport. The androids huddled together as if for mutual protection, and everyone else spread out.
My body was drenched with sweat, my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest, and my breath came in short gasping sobs. I have at least one nightmare a night, so I’m fairly used to them. But this dream had a coherency the others lacked, as if memories were trying to put themselves back together and couldn’t quite make it. It took an hour or more to fall asleep. It seemed as if a few minutes had passed when Sasha opened the fresher, used both hands to towel her hair, and kicked my bed. “Up and at ’em, Max.
She looked ashamed, and it was then that I noticed the bloody footprints. Sasha had come down who knows how many stairs in her bare feet and cut them to shreds. All without a whimper. I felt like the biggest sonofabitch in the world and wished I could take the comment back. Her attention was elsewhere. ” I looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The boat appeared to be about twenty-five feet long, had lots of lights, and, judging from the shape of its hull, had been designed for speed rather than cargo capacity.