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Read e-book online Dead End (Stargate: Atlantis, Book 12) PDF

By Chris Wraight

Dr. Rodney McKay needs to attempt to rescue his associates who're stranded on an icy global at the fringe of the Pegasus Galaxy.

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Analog technological know-how Fiction and truth, December 2014, quantity CXXXIV No. 12
Trevor Quachri, editor
Cover paintings via Shutterstock


"The Anomaly" by means of C. W. Johnson
"Humans First! " via Kyle Kirkland

Short Stories
"Dino Mate" via Rosemary Claire Smith
"Citizen of the Galaxy" through Evan Dicken
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"Twist of Coil" by way of Miki Dare
"Racing the Tide" through Craig DeLancey

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Science Fact
"Speared" by way of Tom Ligon, Stephanie Osborn, Arlan Andrews Sr

"Probability 0: All Too Human" by means of Paul Carlson
Guest Editorial: "A number of Apocalypses" by means of Howard V. Hendrick
Alternate View: "Hacking the Genome Alphabet" by means of John G. Cramer
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Additional resources for Dead End (Stargate: Atlantis, Book 12)

Example text

Hassan extended a hand. ” “May your table last forever, Hassan, but we’ve just dined; and I am in a hurry to find Abdoulaye. ” Hassan’s brow creased. “Marîd, my darling, clever one, I haven’t seen Abdoulaye for hours. ” Hassan’s tone implied Abdoulaye’s entertainment was any of several possible vices. ” Hassan pretended to mull this problem over for a moment. ” “An excellent suggestion, my uncle, but I would like to have Abdoulaye’s written receipt. ” That didn’t sit well with Hassan, but he could make no objection.

My mother had been forced into prostitution when I was very young, to keep us both fed and sheltered. I remember with painful clarity the games the cops had played with her then. That had been in Algeria a long time ago, but cops were cops to me. Except for Lieutenant Okking. The medical examiner’s usually stoic expression showed a little distaste when he saw Tamiko. She had been dead about four hours, he said. He could get a general description of the murderer from the handprints on her neck and other clues.

Now I looked like every other poor, scruffy Arab in the city, one of the fellahin, or peasants. I doubt if I’d dressed like this more than ten times in all the years I’d lived in the Budayeen. I’ve always affected European clothing, in my youth in Algeria and later when I’d wandered eastward. I did not now look like an Algerian; I wanted to be taken for a local fellah. Maybe only my reddish beard whispered a discordant note, but the German would not know that. As I left my apartment and walked along the Street toward the gate, I didn’t hear my name called once or catch a glance of recognition.

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