Steelheart Read Online Free PDF

flesh, flapped into the air. Food was where you found it.
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    Doon awoke clutching another synthetic's arm to his chest. His eyes opened to near total darkness. What little light there was formed a straight line along one side of the cable vault's access door. Afterimages strobed through his visual recognition system, and his body spasmed in response. The punishment had gone on for a long time and leaked into his dreams. Assuming they were dreams and not a simulation.
    The question was irrelevant, and Doon pushed it away. The real question lay cradled in his arms. He had the arm— who would attach it? He knew the answer, or hoped he did, assuming she would agree.
    With the same single-minded determination once devoted to finding criminals, the synthetic had tracked no less than three roboticists to their various lairs and chosen the one he thought most qualified. It was then, and only then, that Doon went after his arm.
    The android emptied his pack and eyed his belongings. There weren't very many. The battery-powered light, a pack, a small "first aid" kit for do-it-yourself repairs, four boxes of ammo, three magazines, a cleaning kit, a set of reload tools, a combat knife, a media player, a bag filled with heat cubes, and an extra set of clothes.
    Of even more importance, however, were some carefully chosen trade goods, including two bottles of vitamin C with the original seals intact, an ampule of broad-spectrum antibiotics, a pound of number eight shot, and six disposable lighters. The media player was a luxury but didn't take much room. He decided to keep it.
    He started to pack—not an easy task with only one limb. Sojo's arm went into the bag first. The other items fit around it. A human would have carried the same gear Doon did, plus food, water, and what? Pictures of Mom and Dad? The latest in a long chain of survivors, people who had lived long enough to reproduce, and launch their genes into the future. The synthetic bent Sojo's hand at the wrist, pulled the flap into place, and secured the necessary fasteners.
    Doon took one last look around, confirmed that everything was accounted for, and slipped his arm through a strap. The cover squealed as he pushed it up and out of the way, and clanged when it hit the pavement. An elderly couple looked toward the noise, saw a man emerge as if from a grave, and hurried away. The less they saw, the safer they were.
    Doon replaced the lid out of respect for the next tenant, pulled a three-sixty, and headed for higher ground. He felt good, very good, and turned his thoughts to the future. Equipped with a brand-new arm, the synthetic could do whatever he pleased. Find a hole somewhere, read his data cubes, and wait for things to improve.
    A slush ball exploded against the side of Doon's face. He frowned, brought his target acquisition system on-line, and scanned the roof line. The youngsters made black silhouettes against the gray sky. They laughed as the cripple scooped some slush, rolled it on his chest, and threw the missile as hard as he could.
    The laughter died as the perfectly thrown ball smacked into the tallest boy's chest. A witness cheered; Doon bowed and continued on his way. The day was young, and life, if that's what his existence could be called, was good.
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    As Mary descended the hill, the market spread itself before her. Illegal at one time, and truly the province of thieves, the market had thrived of late, offering as it did a setting for barter-based commerce.
    Knowing a good thing when they saw it, the Guild had fenced the area, placed guards on all the gates, and taxed both ends of every transaction. Some talked of establishing a "free market," but no one did anything about it—partly because Guild rates were relatively low, and partly because the merchants were preferable to organized crime.
    Though small to begin with, the market now covered more than two square miles. Except for their garish signs, the huts, shanties, and lean-tos that