Slave World by Johnny Stone Read Free Book Online

have to, either. You’ll be lucky if they don’t scrap you on the spot, or sell you off to some El’lini junk dealer. If that’s the case, you can look forward to piloting an automated garbage scow for the remainder of your very long and boring life. So in other words, it would behoove you to figure out a way to make sure nothing happens to me.”
    “I see.” Mark’s faint pause of thoughtful understanding was the closest he could come to showing fear. AI didn’t have emotions, not real ones at least. “In that case I will make every effort to ensure your safety, while staying within the confines of my programming.”
    “Yeah, I thought so,” I snorted.
    The faint whine of internal servos tickled my inner ears, when I hefted my favorite ‘dumbass be good’ rifle from its storage rack. It was 60-pound monster firing 20mm caseless rounds that would put anyone, armored or not, down in the blink of an eye. I cradled it effortlessly in my arms, throwing its wide sling over my head and shoulder. My cybernetically amplified strength definitely paid off in situations like this. It was one of the few enhancements left behind from my Fleet days, that couldn’t be removed without permanent scarring, disability or more than likely, just killing me.
    Shit, it wasn’t like I was technically listed as disabled for my ‘condition,’ as it was? Most of us that had made it out of that ratfuck alive, known as the Seth war, had wound up with a slew of mental and emotional disorders to some degree or another. In addition to that, I couldn’t get pregnant any longer either; one of the numerous, yet unexpected side effects of all the experimental crap Fleet pumped into me over the years.
    I chambered a round, striding heavily through the nearly empty cargo-hold past John, while he rearranged some of my personal gear. I stopped beside the cargo-bay door control panel, clearing the seal, opening it with a squealing thump that lowered to form a wide ramp. A blast of cool, fresh air rushed inward, buffeting my face with the strong smell of cinnamon and spicy dirt.
    I kept my rifle low but at the ready when I stopped before the group of six heavily armed, yet exquisitely dressed men of Hispanic heritage. One of them I recognized.
    “Buenos Dias, senorita Winters, como estas?
    “Hi, Carlos. Could we do this in English, you know how bad my Spanish is?”
    Carlos Mandolin, the sixth man in the food chain for their entire Cartel, and nephew to Don Fillip Mandolin himself, burst into a throaty, over-joyous laugh. He was a dark skinned and brutally handsome thirtyish-something, with a mouthwatering build and an incredibly sexy voice. Yeah, I’d do him any day of the week and then some.
    “Si, your Spanish does suck. It’s a good thing you’re not being paid for your linguistic skills.” His good-natured bantering, and misleading friendliness, vanished in the blink of an eye. “Hey, what the fuck’s wrong with you coming in that fast, you crazy puta , huh? You were about five seconds away from getting slagged…crazy gringo…” He slipped back into Spanish, rambling a triad of obscenities. My universal translator had crapped out on me long ago so I had no idea what he was saying other than that, but I’m sure it wasn’t good.
    Personal confrontations had never been a strong point for me, and as much as I loathed the thought of it, it was time to play the hard-nosed bitch or things would only get worse from here. One thing I’d learned over the years when dealing with any of the Cartels’, especially being a woman, was as soon as you started taking shit from them, letting them bully or intimidate you, it never stopped. They respected power and anyone who could wield it effectively; it was just a matter of knowing your boundaries. It was like walking along the edge of a knife, one wrong step and you’re dead. Sometimes, even if you made the right step, you’re still dead.
    “Hey Carlos, I’m not dick-dancing around here. The