By David Gunn
With Death’s Head, David Gunn rocketed onto the scene within the such a lot explosive and enjoyable technology fiction debut on the grounds that Richard Morgan’s Altered Carbon. Now Gunn is back–and so is Sven Tveskoeg: delinquent, antihero, anti-you-name-it, a one-man killing spree whose ally is an clever handgun with a foul perspective and whose worst enemy is, good, almost about every person else.
And if Sven weren’t risky adequate already, upload within the deadly alien parasite that is living in his throat . . . and is in a position to bending area and time. Then there’s the truth that Sven’s genetic make-up is barely 98.2 percentage human, the remainder being undetermined yet potentially contributing to his more advantageous therapeutic skills, more suitable energy, strange agility, and extraordinary sociopathic traits. the result's one heavily badass soldier with a hair-trigger mood and a chip on his shoulder the scale of a small moon. those are traits that might doom a guy to legal or worse in any first rate society.
Luckily, Sven doesn’t stay in an honest society. He lives within the empire of OctoV, a tyrant who's half computer, half boy, half god, and all evil. Sven’s features have introduced him to OctoV’s own realization and earned him a lieutenant’s fee within the Death’s Head, the elite corps of assassins and enforcers whose function in lifestyles is to kill and die for the larger glory of OctoV.
Sven’s new task? Lead his ragtag band of Death’s Head rejects–the Aux, brief for auxiliaries–to the bogus global of Hekati. it sounds as if a citizen of the United unfastened, an empire not just vaster than OctoV’s yet way more technologically complicated, has long gone lacking there. Now it’s as much as Sven to rescue the terrible soul.
But Hekati seems to be a vicious den of backstabbing and betrayal, the place not anything and not anyone should be relied on, least of all of the greenhorn colonel installed cost of the venture on the final second. It seems like a person wishes Sven Tveskoeg dead.
So what else is new?
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Extra info for Maximum Offense (Death's Head, Book 2)
Move around . . . ’ That feels like Rice. losing right into a ditch, the boy involves his knees in the back of a twist of vine studded with flat, razor-edged blades. a few vines are silver; this one is red from no matter what is buried underneath its hungry roots. a few Rats huddle round Rice on the backside of the slope. He’s having a look as much as definitely the right. So that’s evidently the place he has despatched a few troops. The boy may possibly cross left, use one of many tracks out of the sell off and pass domestic . . . purely Rice will easily come trying to find him. a few issues in existence you simply need to face. That’s what his sister says. So the boy climbs better, to maintain above the scouts. As he climbs, he grabs something that appears sharp and thrusts it within his blouse. A smoking gash marks the top aspect of the unload. Hell’s mouth, humans name it. not anyone understands what lies so deep that it might probably hold burning thus far under the garbage heaped over it. All they comprehend is that smoke from the gash burns your eyes and its ash eats into your dermis. perhaps if he crawls shut the Rats should be unwilling to stick to? and perhaps now not, yet it’s worthy a test. Make great, Maria says. Ask in a well mannered way for those who can scavenge the unload. clarify . . . in simple terms how can he, while Rice won’t hearken to his pleas, and the Rats chase him from the unload each day? A metal bolt, stones, a lump of once-molten slag, a bottle made of bluish glass . . . His guns assortment. it really is challenging to think anyone hasn’t chanced on the bottle ahead of him. additionally, he has whatever flat and eco-friendly that appears like ceramic yet stresses while it bends. the item has jagged edges. fairly sharp. So he comes to a decision to throw it first. He doesn’t have lengthy to attend. Coughing tells him the scouts are coming. however the boy waits until eventually the 1st determine is a dismal shadow ahead of he throws. Then he stands, twists his physique and spins the razor-edged piece of board as demanding as he can. ‘Fuck. ’ ‘Shit, he’s . . . ’ ‘Get Rice. ’ The boy ploughs his approach in the direction of their shouts. A nervous face seems up via drifting smoke, and turns purple because the boy drives his heel right into a face and steps on it in his hurry to harm the boy past. That face turns pink to boot. there's a fourth boy, yet he’s operating downhill, stumbling as he runs. A steel bolt to the again of his cranium drops him. The boy is more desirable than them. He minds ache much less. That’s why they hunt him in a pack. Crouching, the boy examines his sufferers. are subconscious. The 3rd stares with anxious eyes, blood effervescent from a rip in his throat. It doesn’t jet like every body says it may. It bubbles like a humid fart. The boy wonders what to do. Then recalls what Maria regularly says. if you don’t understand what to do . . . Do not anything. He leaves his sufferer to die. It feels reliable to be out of the smoke. brain you, it feels even higher to have 3 knives and a bit membership on a flexible spring that wobbles if you faucet it, and hits the center of your hand with a pleasing thump. ‘Oi, freak . . . ‘ it's Rice, with a dozen of his fans. All are armed and so much hold knives. They’ve labored out which means he used to be going to circle. The boy is go with himself for being so silly.