"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx 1 - For Love of Mother-Not" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"I just manage it. That's where I'm heading. I can help you arrange return passage to Drallar from there."
"How do ye know we're from the city?"
Lauren gestured with a thumb back toward the sleeping figure behind them. "He told me. He told me a lot."
"That's odd," Mother Mastiff commented. "He's not the talkative kind, that boy." She went quiet for a while, watching the. forest slide past below. Flinx slept on, enjoying his first relaxed sleep in some time.
" 'Tis an awful lot of trouble you've gone through on his behalf," she finally declared, "especially for a total stranger. Especially for one so young."
"Youth is relative," Lauren said. "Maybe be brought out the maternal instinct in me."
"Don't get profound with me, child," Mother Mastiff warned her, "nor sassy, either." Ironic, that last comment, though. Hadn't she once felt the same way about the boy many years ago? "I've watched ye, seen the way ye look at him. Do ye love him?"
"Love him?" Lauren's surprise was quite genuine. Then, seeing that Mother Mastiff was serious, she forced herself to respond solemnly. "Certainly not! At least, not in that way. I'm fond of him, sure. I respect him immensely for what he's managed to do on his own, and I also feel sorry for him. There is affection, certainly. But the kind of love you're talking about? Not a chance."
"'Youth is relative,"' Mother Mastiff taunted her gently. "One must be certain. I've seen much in my life, child. There's little that can surprise me, or at least so I thought until a few weeks ago." She cackled softly. "I'm glad to hear ye say this. Anything else could do harm to the boy."
"I would never do that," Lauren assured her. She glanced back at Flinx's sleeping form. "I'm going to drop you at the lodge. My assistant's name is Sal. I'll make some pretense of going in to arrange your transportation and talk to him. Then I'll take off across the lake. I think it will be better for him that way. I don't want to hurt him." She hesitated. "You don't think he'll do anything silly, like coming after me?"
Mother Mastiff considered thoughtfully, then shook her head. "He's just a little too sensible. He'll understand. I'm sure. As for me, I don't know what to say, child. You've been so helpful to him and to me."
" 'Revenge,' remember?" She grinned, the lights from the console glinting off her high cheekbones. "He's a funny one, your Plinx. I don't think I'll forget him."
"Ye know, child, 'tis peculiar," Mother Mastiff muttered as she gazed out into the clouds and mist, "but you're not the first person to say that."
"And I expect," Lauren added as she turned her attention back to her driving, "that I won't be the last, either." The mudder circled the devastated encampment several times before leaving the cover of the forest and cruising among the ruined buildings. Eventually, it settled to ground near the stump of what had been a central tower.
The woman who stepped out was clad in a dark-green and brown camouflage suit, as was the man at the vehicle's controls. He kept the engine running as his companion marched a half-dozen meters toward the tower, stopped, and turned a slow circle, hands on hips. Then they both relaxed, recognizing that whatever had obliterated the installation no longer posed any threat. No discussion was necessary-they had worked together for a long time, and words had become superfluous.
The man killed the mudder's engine and exited to join his associate in surveying the wreckage. A light rain was falling. It did not soak them, for the camouflage suits repelled moisture. The field was temporary, but from what they could see of the encampment, they wouldn't be in the place long enough to have to recharge.
"I'm sick of opening packages, only to find smaller packages inside," the man said ruefully. "I'm sick of having every new avenue we take turn into a dead end." He gestured toward the destruction surrounding them; crumpled buildings, isolated wisps of smoke rising from piles of debris, slag where power had melted metal.
"Dead may be the right description, too, judging by the looks of things."
"Not necessarily." His companion only half heard him. She was staring at a wide depression near her feet. It was pointed at one end. A second, identical mark dented the ground several meters away, another an equal distance be- yond. As she traced their progress, she saw that they formed a curving trail. She had not noticed them at first because they were filled with water.
She kicked in the side of the one nearest her boots. "Footprints," she said curtly.
"Hoof prints," the man corrected her. His gaze went to the mist-shrouded woods that surrounded the camp. "I wish I knew more about this backwater world."
"Don't criticize yourself. We didn't plan to spend so much time here. Besides, the urban center is pretty cosmopolitan."
"Yeah, and civilization stops at its outskirts. The rest of the planet's too primitive to rate a class. That's what's slowed us up from the beginning. Too many places to hide."
Her gaze swept the ruins. "Doesn't seem to have done them much good."
"No," he agreed. "I saw the bones on the way in, same as you did. I wonder if the poor monster died here, too?"
"Don't talk like that," she said uneasily. "You know how we're supposed to refer to him. You don't watch yourself, you'll put that in an official communique some- time and find yourself up for a formal reprimand."
"Ah, yes, I forgot," he murmured. "The disadvantaged child. Pardon me. Rose, but this whole business has been a lousy job from the beginning. You're right, though. I shouldn't single him out. It's not his fault. The contrary. He isn't responsible for what the Meliorares did to him."
"Right," the woman said. "Well, he'll soon be repaired."
"If he got away," her companion reminded her.
"Surely some of them did," the woman said.
The man pointed toward several long walls of rubble that might once have been buildings. "Speak of the devil."
A figure was headed toward them. It took longer than was necessary because it did not travel in a straight line. It attempted to, but every so often would stagger off to its right like a wheel with its bearings out. The man's clothes were filthy, his boots caked with mud. They had not been changed in several days. He waved weakly at the new- comers. Save for the limp with which he walked, he seemed intact. His stringy hair was soaked and plastered like wire to his face and head. He made no effort to brush it from his eyes.
He seemed indifferent to the identity of the new arrivals. His concerns were more prosaic. "Have you any food?"
"What happened here?" the woman asked him as soon as he had limped to within earshot.
"Have you any food? God knows there's plenty of water. That's all this miserable place has to offer is plenty of water. All you want even when you don't want it. I've been living on nuts and berries and what I've been able to salvage from the camp kitchen. Had to fight the scavengers for everything. Miserable, stinking hole."
"What happened here?" the woman repeated calmly. The man appeared to be in his late twenties. Too young, she knew, for him to be a member of the Meliorare's inner circle. Just an unlucky employee.
"Caster," he mumbled. "Name's Caster. Excuse me a minute." He slid down his crude, handmade crutch until he was sprawled on the damp earth. "Broke my ankle, I think. It hasn't healed too well. I need to have it set right." He winced, then looked up at them.
"Damned if I know. What happened here, I mean. One minute I was replacing communications modules, and the next all hell opened up. You should've seen 'em. Goddamn big as the tower, every one of 'em. Seemed like it. any- how. Worst thing was those dish-size bloody eyes with tiny little black specks lookin' down at you like a machine. Not decent, them eyes. I don't know what brought 'em down on us like they came, but it sure as hell wasn't a kind providence."
"Are you the only survivor?" the man asked.
"I haven't seen anyone else, if that's what you mean." His voice turned pleading. "Hey, have you got any food?"
"We can feed you," the woman said with a smile. "Listen, who were you working for here?"
. "Bunch of scientists. Uppity bunch. Never talked to us ordinary folk." He forced a weak laugh. "Paid well, though. Keep your mouth shut and do your job and see the countryside. Just never expected the countryside to come visiting me. I've had it with this outfit. Ready to go home. They can keep their damn severance fee." A new thought occurred to him, and he squinted up at the couple standing over him.
"Hey, you mean you don't know who they were? Who are you people, anyway?"
They exchanged a glance; then the woman shrugged. "No harm in it. Maybe it'll help his memory."
She pulled a small plastic card from an inside pocket and showed it to the injured man. It was bright red. On it was printed a name, then her world of origin: Terra. The eyes of the man on the ground widened slightly at that. The series of letters which followed added confusion to his astonishment.
FLT-I-PC-MO. The first section he understood. It told him that this visitor was an autonomous agent, rank Inspector, of the Commonwealth law enforcement arm, the Peaceforcers.
"What does 'MO' stand for?" he asked.
"Moral Operations section," she told him, repocketing the ident. "These scientists you worked for-even though you had little or no personal contact with them, you must have seen them from time to time?"
"Sure. They kept pretty well to themselves, but I some- times saw 'em strolling around."
"They were all quite elderly, weren't they?"