Steelheart Read Free Page A

survival programming and the dictates of his conscious mind. All of which was rather interesting, given that the original sequence of activities stemmed from a desire to replace his missing arm, and thereby improve the odds of survival. He eased his way forward.
    Sparks fanned the air and a blade/screeched as Sojo's head wobbled, hung from a handful of cables, and fell free. It bounced and rolled until the plastiflesh nose got in the way. The Junkman hated this part of the job. Not because of the butchery, but because of the time it took, and the fact that he was vulnerable. Damn Jak anyway ... it was just like the miserable little bastard to get himself killed and leave someone else holding the bag. The Junkman glanced at the girl, assured himself that she was looking out into the hall, and returned to his work.
    Doon heard the saw, knew what it meant, and eased his way forward. The girl couldn't possibly have heard him, not with all the screeching, but turned anyway, as if warned by some sixth sense. A strange concept from the synthetic's point of view, since he had eight senses, and considered humans to be somewhat handicapped. He rounded a corner.
    The girl didn't match his files. Identity screened? It hardly mattered. Her eyes widened with fear, her finger tightened on the trigger, and Doon wished he still had the nonlethal stun gun that went with his missing arm. But that was gone now ... broken down for its component parts, or on display in an Antitechnic church. There was no choice.
    Doon squeezed the trigger slowly, regretfully, knowing he couldn't miss. He saw the first slug hit the center of her scrawny chest—and the second take her between the eyes. Half her torso disappeared, followed by the top of her head. Blood fanned the wall.
    The Junkman saw the girl die out of the corner of his eye and turned to meet the threat. Most people would have taken Doon for human—but the Junkman wasn't most people. He recognized the synthetic for what he was and tried to beat the machine's computer-fast reflexes.
    Doon stepped through the jagged hole, raised the .44, and saw his vision split in two. The left side of the display showed a perp with weapon in hand, and a partially dismembered corpse lying at his feet.
    The other half of the frame clicked through a series of digitally reproduced stills. There were twenty-six mug shots altogether, each a little older than the one before it, culminating in a picture taken two weeks prior to the Cleansing. Thanks to the disparity in reaction times, there was plenty of opportunity for a warning. Doon heard himself give one. "Police! Hold it right there!"
    The Junkman fired, saw a hole appear in front of the synthetic's boots, and knew the next shot would hit his opponent's left knee. That would bring the sonofabitch down— and the rest would be easy. Maybe he could hire some locals to carry the body parts ... maybe he could...
    The first shot hit the Junkman's chest with the force of a sledgehammer. It flattened itself on his body armor, threw the bounty hunter backwards, and drove the air from his lungs. He was processing that, attempting to breathe, when the second bullet exited through the back of his head. The body smashed into some shelving, fell and was buried under an avalanche of printouts. The Junkman was dead.
    Doon shook his head sadly, looked around, and marveled at Sojo's quarters. All that stuff... and for what? Knowledge for the sake of knowledge? Or something more? There was no way to tell.
    The synthetic spotted Sojo's blood-spattered right arm, considered taking the torso as well, and decided against it. It was too much to carry, especially in a fight, and there was something more as well. A vague sense of guilt—as if he were at fault.
    Doon took the arm, wiped most of the bounty hunter's blood off it, and left the way he had come. Eyes watched through holes in the walls, and ears tracked his progress. The residents would miss Sojo, but that wouldn't