"Bunch, Chris - Last Legion 01 - The Last Legion 2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bunch Chris)

The girl smiled, and the screen blanked.

Corfi waited until he calmed, then touched sensors once more. The screen
blurred, became blank green. Again he keyed numbers, and the same thing
happened. At the third screen he input letters and numbers he'd
memorized several years ago touched the SEND sensor. The transmission
would be bounced at least a dozen times before it reached Larix.

As soon as he'd finished the final group, he broke contact and, once
again, checked for a bug. Still nothing.

Alban Corfi, soon to be somewhat richer, was a very careful man.



CHAPTER 3

Altair/Klesura/Happy Vale

Tweg Mik Kerle stared glumly out at perfection. Utterly blue sky. Sky,
even if it was a little reddish, beautiful, with a scattering of clouds.
A spring breeze filtered through the open door, and Kerle smelled
flowers, fresh hay, and, from somewhere, a woman's perfume.

He heard the tinkle of her laughter and snarled.

Perfection all around, and he was supposed to recruit for the
Confederation's Army. Why would anyone here want to enlist and go wallow
through the mud on some armpit world where people were actively trying
to kill her? Leave a place where everyone seemed to know his place and,
worse yet, like it? A place where all the women were gorgeous and happy,
and the men stalwart and good-tempered?

Like that oaf looking in the window at Kerle's carefully spread-out
exhibits. Here a tiny uniformed tweg ordered her twenty soldiers through
a fascinating confidence course, there a cent was receiving a medal from
his caud, while his hundred stood in stiff ranks behind, and in the
center three strikers busied themselves learning some sort of electron
trade. He'd gape at the tiny mannequins, then guffaw and go harvest his
turnips or whatever he harvested.

Kerle moaned, still looking at the bumpkin. Tall, almost two meters.
Well-built. Good muscles. Blond. Human to the nth classification.
Handsome, the sort men would follow anywhere, given a few years
seasoning. A recruiting poster sort of yokel.

Don't walk away, boy. Come on through those doors and help a poor tired
tweg make his quota.

Kerle goggled. The yokel was walking through the door.