"David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 02 - Cross The Stars (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

тАЬOoh, aye,тАЭ Blegan agreed, тАЬand glad I am, too, an old man like me doesnтАЩt need excitement.тАЭ He paused. тАЬBut I
didnтАЩt need to carry your father back dead from the Port, either, with a knife through his belly and half his ribs. HeтАЩd
not have gone there alone had he an ounce of sense, not the way things are now.тАЭ
Teddy swung in front of the old servant and took him by the hands. тАЬDonтАЩt you see, Coon?тАЭ he demanded. тАЬIt
wonтАЩt make this a better world to live in if people like us help tear down civilization the way the thugs at the Port do.
We need order here, but we wonтАЩt get it by the two of us buckling up like vigilantes and getting ourselves killed too.
If the only way to keep decent men from dying in the street was to make Beverly Dyson the President, thenтАФIтАЩm
glad of that too.тАЭ
тАЬThat one,тАЭ said Coon Blegan, but he smiled and did not spit as young Slade had expected. The youth did not
recognize the smile any more than he had recognized CoonтАЩs gesture toward his armpit for what it was.
Blegan was watching the crowd around the truck. A knife had flashed, then gone sailing through the air as a coda
to the crack of wood on bone. Men cheered as the group broke apart. Durotige, a big man in Slade coveralls marked
as well with a crimson stripe, roared triumph. He was swelling in the congratulations of liverymen who stayed clear
of his artfully-spinning nunchaku. Durotige fed the chain-linked batons in a figure-8, between his legs and over his
shoulders alternately.
His opponent of a moment before wore shabby green and scarlet livery. He was hunched over, holding a right
forearm that was probably broken. The injured man backed and cursed as the outward arch of the nunchaku snapped
just short of his nose. Durotige had been a Slade Under-Steward a month before. That his constituency had now
changed was shown by the stripe on his trousersтАФand by the enthusiasm with which the crimson Dyson claque
supported him.
тАЬBeverly Dyson,тАЭ the old servant repeated grimly. тАЬThat one wants to piss with the big dogs, but I donтАЩt think he
can raise his leg high enough. One of these days Master DonaldтАЩll come home . . . and thereтАЩll be some to learn why
your Uncle was nicknamed what he was.тАЭ
 CHAPTER FIVE
тАЬOh, come, Marilee,тАЭ said Beverly Dyson in a reasonable tone of voice. тАЬWhy shouldnтАЩt I call him Mad Dog? ItтАЩs
what his own father called him, isnтАЩt it?тАЭ
Councilor Dyson touched the base of a stim cone to his left wrist. The disposable injector wore the black and gold
striping of a powerful euphoric. In fact, the stock which Dyson carried was loaded with a mild stimulant. It did
nothing to disturb the CouncilorтАЩs plans or the ruthless speed with which he could execute them.
тАЬDonтАЩs father hated him, as you well know,тАЭ snapped Marilee Slade as she stared through the window. The family
apartments were on the third floor of Slade House. The Trophy Room in which she sat with Dyson looked across the
broad courtyard to the Council Hall beyond. The truck which had for all practical purposes been looted in the
courtyard was just getting under way again. It would stop at the service dock behind the House for proper unloading.
Ever since a driver had been beaten within an inch of his life, the provisions vehicles touched down in the courtyard
first. тАЬThatтАЩs why,тАЭ Marilee continued on a rising inflexion, тАЬhis father falsified the birth records thirty years ago to
make it appear that Thomas was the elder twin.тАЭ
тАЬMarilee, my dear, weтАЩve been over this,тАЭ said Dyson in a patronizing sing-song. It rasped the womanтАЩs nerves
like wind on an aspen. Dyson knew that, and his smile was all the broader for that fact. тАЬLegally, your late husband
was the Slade CouncilorтАФas your son Edward will be when he comes of age. ThereтАЩs no point trying to overturn a
Council decision, especially a decision made so long ago. And after all, if you claim your father-in-law lied to the
Council, why do you presume his dying words to his son were the truth? ThatтАЩs not logical, my dear.тАЭ
тАЬWell, itтАЩs the curst truth!тАЭ the woman blazed. She turned. Her heels clacked on the mosaics of imported marble
which overlaid a floor of sand-finished concrete dating back to the Settlement. The widow was tall, man-tall, though
most of her height was from the waist down. The garment she wore had legs when she strode, but it was a single
glittering cocoon when she chose to stand straight. The fabric shaded from black at the lower gathering to a flame-
shot scarlet on the womanтАЩs slim neck. тАЬListen, Dyson,тАЭ she snapped along a pointing finger, тАЬeven ifтАФтАЭ
тАЬBeverly, my dear, please,тАЭ the handsome man interrupted. тАЬAfter all, weтАЩve known each other all our lives.тАЭ He
too stood, dropping the flaccid stim cone back into the waist pouch from which he had taken it. There was a trash
chute in the pedestal table beside him. Using the chute would have permitted others to examine the container, to
penetrate a facet of the disguise in which Dyson wrapped himself.