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Broken Angels

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Overview

Welcome back to the brash, brutal new world of the twenty-fifth century: where global politics isn't just for planet Earth anymore; and where death is just a break in the action, thanks to the techno-miracle that can preserve human consciousness and download it into one new body after another.Cynical, quick-on-the-trigger Takeshi Kovacs, the ex-U.N. envoy turned private eye, has changed careers, and bodies, once more . . . trading sleuthing for soldiering as a warrior-for-hire, and helping a far-flung planet's government put down a bloody revolution.

Editorial Reviews

Editorial Reviews for this product are not available at this time.

Author Information

Bio of Richard K. Morgan

Richard K. Morgan is the acclaimed author of Market Forces, Broken Angels, and Altered Carbon, a New York Times Notable Book that also won the Philip K. Dick Award. Morgan sold the movie rights for Altered Carbon to Joel Silver and Warner Bros. His third book, Market Forces, has also been sold to Warner Bros. He lives in Scotland.

Customer Reviews

  • 3 stars out of 5Not as good as the original

    Posted November 06, 2009 by Slav B. Shuravesky, East Brunswick

    Richard K. Morgan has set a high standard with his Altered Carbon. Unfortunately the sequel falls quite a bit short of that standard. While Altered Carbon was simply impossible to set down, it took this book quite a while to take hold. The story is a little slow to develop but once the narration builds up steam roughly midway it gets some of the intensity of Altered Carbon.

Additional Info

Imprint

Ballantine Books

Filesize

1.10 MB

Number of Pages

384

eBook ISBN

9780345457738

Excerpt from: Broken Angels by Richard K. Morgan

CHAPTER ONE

I first met Jan Schneider in a Protectorate orbital hospital, three hundred kilometers above the ragged clouds of Sanction IV and in a lot of pain. Technically there wasn't supposed to be a Protectorate presence anywhere in the Sanction system -- what was left of planetary government was insisting loudly from its bunkers that this was an internal matter, and local corporate interests had tacitly agreed to sign along that particular dotted line for the time being.

Accordingly, the Protectorate vessels that had been hanging around the system since Joshua Kemp raised his revolutionary standard in Indigo City had had their recognition codes altered, in effect being bought out on long-term lease by the various corporations involved, and then reloaned to the embattled government as part of the -- tax deductible -- local development fund. Those that were not pulled out of the sky by Kemp's unexpectedly efficient secondhand marauder bombs would be sold back to the Protectorate, lease unexpired, and any net losses once again written off to tax. Clean hands all around. In the meantime, any senior personnel injured fighting against Kemp's forces got shuttled out of harm's way, and this had been my major consideration when choosing sides. It had the look of a messy war.

The shuttle off-loaded us directly onto the hospital's hangar deck, using a device not unlike a massive ammunition feed belt to dump the dozens of capsule stretchers with what felt like unceremonious haste. I could hear the shrill whine of the ship's engines still dying away as we rattled and clanked our way out over the wing and down onto the deck, and when they cracked open my capsule the air in the hangar burned my lungs with the chill of recently evacuated hard space. An instant layer of ice crystals formed on everything, including my face.

"You!" It was a woman's voice, harsh with stress. "Are you in pain?"

I blinked some of the ice out of my eyes and looked down at my blood-caked battledress.

"Take a wild guess," I croaked.