"Simon R. Green - Deathstalker - 2 - Deathstalker Rebellion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

him; a man in his mid twenties, tall and rangy with dark hair and darker eyes. Not
exactly soft, but not the kind of person you'd be scared of meeting in a back alley,
either. Owen sighed deeply, finished what he was doing, zipped up again, and left
the toilet with as much dignity as he could muster.

Minimalist though it was, he preferred the look of the toilet to the interior of the
Hadenman ship. Its layout had not been designed with human comforts in mind,
like sense or logic, and some of its aspects were positively disturbing. Owen
concentrated on getting back to Hazel, who was sitting cross-legged on the deck
between two enigmatic protrusions of Hadenman machinery. She was busy
dismantling and cleaning her new projectile weapon, and she spared Owen only a
scornful glance as he approached. Hazel d'Ark was never bothered by nerves.
Give her something destructive to play with, and she was happy as a pig in muck.

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Owen sank down beside her, being very careful not to touch anything.

There were no seats or rest stations anywhere in the ship. Instead unfamiliar
inhuman technology filled the interior from stem to stern, with Hadenmen plugged
into it here and there as needed. The augmented men were part of the ship, or it
was part of them, and they ran it with their thoughts. Owen and Hazel fitted in
where they could, and tried not to look too directly at the incomprehensible
machinery. It made their eyes hurt. Lights came and went, of painful brightness
and unfamiliar hues, and the angles of the larger shapes were disturbing, as though
trying to lead the human eye somewhere it couldn't or wouldn't follow. Owen
settled himself as comfortably as he could on the unyielding steel deck, and
hugged his knees to his chest. The ship intimidated the hell out of him, and he
didn't care who knew it. He looked at Hazel, who was completely absorbed in
what she was doing.

A tall, lithely muscular woman in her early twenties, Hazel always looked as
though she was about to explode into action at any moment. Green eyes peered
challenging out at the world from under a mane of long ratty red hair, and her rare
smiles came and went so quickly they were often missed.

As usual, she'd loaded herself down with weapons. Her disrupter hung in its usual
place on her right hip, in its well-worn leather holster. Standard energy pistol,
powerful enough to blast through steel plate as long as the gun's energy crystal
was fully charged. And provided you didn't mind waiting the two minutes it took
for the crystal to recharge between shots. Her sword hung on her left hip, the
chased metal scabbard stretched out across the deck. Standard sword, heavy
enough to do real damage, without being so long it became unwieldy. Scattered
across the desk before her were the component parts of her projectile weapon.
Actually, there looked to be enough parts to make several weapons. Owen had no
idea the things were so damn complicated.

He had ambivalent feelings about the antiquated projectile weapons his ancestor