The Razor by J Barton Mitchell

Author:J Barton Mitchell [Mitchell, J Barton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765387943
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2018-11-27T07:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-THREE

WHO YOU ARE

The old scientist had seven bodyguards at any one time, probably more rotating on and off. And all of them hired to protect the man named Jovenheimer from Zane.

It hadn’t been enough. Less than a month ago, Zane had killed every single one of them.

All of them had pulse rifles, like Zane had anticipated. If they knew anything, they knew that shooting bullets at him was a bad decision. Jovenheimer had purchased the top two floors of a superscraper in New Miami, back on Earth, and had every piece of metal in the place covered or replaced with plastic or polysteel.

That hadn’t mattered either. Zane had brought his own.

A couple of handfuls of rebar he’d pulled out of a junkyard and stuffed in a pack. It wasn’t until the end when he’d finally had to use it.

The last merc had been the toughest. Probably the leader. Older, more experienced, he fought smarter, even got a few blasts in with his pistol before he switched over to a plasma blade.

Zane pulled one of the rebar rods out of the pack, let the Charge flow into it, watched as it started to glow. He felt the wounds heal, the pain subside, except for the pounding in his head. That pain never dulled …

The merc fought as well as he could. Didn’t give up.

Even with the red-hot glowing rod shoved through his throat and his blood spraying all over the ceiling, the man still kept coming. Kept coming until his knees buckled and he fell to the floor with the rest of the guys Jovenheimer had paid to die.

Zane admired him. But he’d killed him all the same.

Then he kicked open the door to the condo’s master bedroom, while the alarms ripped the air, and stepped inside.

Luxurious as the rest of the two-story place. Paintings Zane was sure were originals, nice sheets, a Buddhist altar against a wall, some weird polysteel sculpture in a corner.

The bed was between him and an entire wall of glass, and beyond that a balcony that looked out on New Miami below. A man stood at the railing there, staring out over the twinkling lights of the city and the streaks from intersystem shuttles and atmosphere transports that crisscrossed the sky.

Zane moved out onto the balcony with the man, looking at the expanse of color and technology stretching away to the horizon. It was a hell of a sight.

The superscraper they were in was over five thousand feet tall. Zane could see the autocars, millions of them, moving back and forth below, could see the airships, the glittering holograms on the streets.

It was cold, this high up. Breathing in the air was like breathing in ice crystals. It felt good.

“Hello, Zane,” Jovenheimer said, his voice bending up and down, his Markatum accent thick. “I made it as hard as I could.”

“Not hard enough,” Zane replied. “How long has it been?”

“Year and a half.”

Zane looked at Jovenheimer, a little surprised. Had it really been that long since

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