Black Hole Sun Read Online Free PDF Page A

takes an elevator from the surface to the bottom level. Here is where the food is kept. So are the quarantined containers. Her scavengers have already stripped the upper levels of their treasure. Fabric and spare parts forher connections with the black market. Raw materials to be bartered for transport and good favor. And now, food.
    Food can buy anything. It is the rarest commodity, and even better, her crew has no use for packaged, dehydrated meals. Only blood can whet their appetites.
    â€œStart with the last bunker,” she commands a group of twenty raiders as the elevator stops and she twirls out. “Leave nothing behind. Not a scrap. Not a crumb.”
    She is a sliver of a young woman sporting jet black tresses that almost reach her tailbone. Ringlet curls frame a delicate, heart-shaped face with alabaster skin so fine that it seems translucent. She lifts the hem of her dress as she exits the elevator, keeping the gossamer fabric from dipping in the dusty floor. Her feet are those of a child. They are bare. As she sweeps toward the raiders, the air fills with the smell of her musky perfume, and underneath it, like a murmur, the unmistakable scent of blood.
    Slowly bowing low, their long, matted hair drooping to the floor, they supplicate themselves in response and chant, “Yes, my queen.”
    â€œDræu make such good pets,” she says, watching them scamper down the long rows of padlocked bunkers. Children were born here. Grew to adulthood. Lived and died and were cremated here, their ashes strewn on the surface to aid the terraforming. They are gone now—as worthless as the dust that drifts from the decaying walls.
    â€œEvery little bit helps,” the queen whispers, recallingthe mantra of the original settlers. A whole life lived in a hole in the ground. Rubbish. Sacrifice for future generations. Rubbish. The Orthocracy? Rubbish. The CorpComs? Rubbishier rubbish.
    She is going to change all of that. A little more time. A few more raids.
    In a few hours, she thinks, this last level will be empty. Then the true treasure hunt begins. The Dræu are hungry. A fortnight has passed since fresh meat was on the menu, and the lack of food has made them surly. Difficult to control. Dræu are splendid warriors, beautiful in their anger and drive to devour everything in their path. Wild. Furious. But like any animal kept on a tight leash, they begin to chafe and soon turn that ferocity on one another. Twice in the past two days, fights have broken out among them. One bad boy even gnawed the meat from his own fingers. He had to be punished to understand the errors of his actions.
    Lost in thought, she taps her palm with an electrified prod. It is almost a meter in length when fully extended. Made of titanium. On the tip is a hard steel ball the size of an eyeball. She smiles ironically. Funny, the bad boy’s punishment was to lose an eyeball. She removed it herself. With the prod. Then ate it. It was disgusting, but the lesson had to be learned. Pain is such a gifted clarifier.
    Down the corridor, a group of Dræu reaches a bunker marked with a large red X .
    â€œLeave those be,” she calls. “Your queen has no interestin spreading the plague.” Unless it becomes necessary, she thinks. When one is planning to overthrow the government, one must never exclude possibilities just because they lead to a global pandemic.
    Behind her, an elevator door opens. The occupant’s scent is well known to her. “Kuhru,” she says without turning around. “You have delicious news for your queen, no?”
    â€œYes, my queen,” he growls, a sound that sets her nerves on end.
    For a woman reared listening to the splendid melodies of Chopin, the florid operas of Mozart, and the sanguine ecstasies of Masahiro, the steel-on-glass screech of Kuhru’s voice is an affront to the ears.
    â€œYes what?” she says, back still turned. “Details, please, Kuhru. Did you