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

"No, Captain." Her amber stare melted him. "But I thank you for your offer.
It's too late to help me. But you still have time to flee, and perhaps to save
yourself."
"Staffa kar Therma could never take Myklene. For the first time, he'll have to
tackle a superior force head-on. I grant you, he's taken world after worldтАФbut
never an advanced military power like Myklene."
"I hope the Blessed Gods give you a moment to remember your brave words,
Captain."
"Here, look." He pointed to spots of light above the curve of the planet; they
gleamed greenly against the starclustered darkness of space. "Those are the
most powerful weapons platforms in all of Free SpaceтАФand perhaps beyond the
Forbidden Borders. We can track, pinpoint, and hit as many as six thousand
moving obects at once. It's all controlled by a master computer complex on the
planet so even if we lose a platform, the others will compensate immediately."
At the doubt that troubled her perfect face, Marston grinned. "I'll tell you
what. If the Star Butcher is foolish enough to attack, and if you're
frightened, use thisтАФ" he handed her a medallion from his pouchтАФ"and go down
to the emergency evacuation pods. That's the safest place on the whole ship."
Her delicate fingers closed over the medallion, glimmerings of hope lighting
her porcelain face. "It's a pass?"
He nodded. "The Praetor will have to okay it, since you've only got a ID
clearanceтАФuse it only in an emergency."
She flashed him a brief smile that sent pangs through his
heart. "You're a blessing Captain. But I have to go. If I don't, the Praetor
will . . . Well, that's not your problem. I look forward to seeing you soon."
"Who are you?" he asked as she swept past.
She paused at the hatch and looked back. "You can call me ... no, I owe you,
Captain, and, considering what is coming, perhaps it makes no difference
anymore. My name is Chrysla, but forget I ever told you." She disappeared
through the hatch.
"ChrysiaтАФa wonderful name." Marston fingered his chin, barely noticing the
grimy freighter that followed the traffic pattern toward the Port Authority.
No matter what rumors of war crackled in subspace, the traders still flocked
to Myklene, perhaps hoping to snatch a last minute cargo of Myklenian
luxuries. He glared at the old scow and shook his head. Profiteers betting
that Myklene would fallтАФthat their last cargo would bring them uncounted
wealth.
"But you've bet wrong, friend."
Marston glanced one last time at the planet and started for his quarters. A
trace of a frown ate into his forehead. Chrysla. He'd heard the name before.
Why did it sound familiar?
The shiny syalon door to the Head Regent's office slipped open with a faint
hiss and Sinklar Fist straightened his dustblue student's jacket on his bony
shoulders before striding through. The ceramic heels on his cheap boots
clicked hollowly on the hard tiles.
Tall windows filled the spacious room with light. Data cubes rested in racks
along one wall; the floor reflected a mirror polish. The Head Regent's desk
dominated the room like a hulking flat-topped crab. A spiraling crystal
sculpture poised like a lance on one corner of the desk and a commmonitor
complex rose like a curved claw from the other.