"W. Michael Gear - Forbidden Borders 1 - Requiem for The Conqueror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gear W Michael)

render the enemy incapable of resistance by whatever means are possible. He
must be crushed physically, mentally, and spiritually. Only then can the
vanquished be subjected to the yoke of a new political authority.' "
Marston winced, a pained expression on his face. "Yes
тАв . . yes, I remember those words. But, Lord Commander, don't you have any
pity left for your people? For the innocents? Surely you have some family on
Myklene. Surely there is space in your heart for the millions of innocents you
are killing. What of the children, the elderтАФ"
"What of them?" Staffa raised an eyebrow and steepled his fingers. "My
profession is not compassion, but conquest."
"But I also taught ethics, Lord Commander. Surely you rememberтАФ"
"I have no interest in ethics Captain. Only results."
Marston reached out, imploring. "Stop the slaughter, Lord Commander. We are
beaten! We can't resist further!"
"Are you finished?"
Marston gaped, unable to comprehend. He shook his head. "No. The Praetor is on
board. He would like to speak with you. Please, hold the channel open and
I'llтАФ"
"I have no wish to speak with him Captain. Good dayтАФ and good-bye." Staffa
killed the connection, tension rising in his gut. The Praetor, on Pylos. /
can't face him. Not even after all these years.
Staffa overrode the target acquisition computer, refining the image resolution
until Pylos filled the monitor. Atmosphere leaked from wicked rents in the
hull. Flashes of lights indicated explosions as more of the hull ruptured. She
lay dead in space, no further threat. Except for the man inside your cursed
hull.
Staffa thumbed the main battery, watching the violet beams home in. Pylos
burst apart like a rotten melon under his guns. One by one, Staffa targeted
the escape pods that jettisoned from the wreckage, and blew them into plasma.
CHAPTER II
Special Tactics Officer Ryman Ark waited with the cool efficiency of a
professional. He had placed the rest of his team throughout the hospital
building, but this critical corridor he'd taken for his own. Around him, his
men and women lay prone behind shimmering energy barriers capable of
deflecting pulse as well as particle fire. No one moved, no one made a sound.
Why are we here? Why did the Lord Commander put his best Special Tactics Unit
here . . . to guard one crippled old man? Who is he?
Ark shifted his gaze from the gleaming white corridor and checked the status
displays projected by his sophisticated battle helmet. At his mental command
varicolored holos appeared, providing him with information beyond the
capabilities of his human senses. He focused the helmet's scanning receptors
on the end of the long hallway and dialed up the sensitivity. The corridor
looked like any other: White walls reflected soft fluorescent light from
square ceiling panels; the polished floor tiles gleamed; steel doors had been
placed at fifteen meter intervals. The auditory sensors amplified only the hum
of the air conditioning.
The Lord Commander had ordered all rooms to be vacatedтАФall but the one Ark and
his team guarded. And what the Lord Commander ordered, the Companions accepted
as inviolate law, no matter what the sense of it might seem at the moment.
But to put us here? There's still fighting out there. We ought to be using our