"Simon R. Green - Deathstalker - 3 - Deathstalker War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

Theoretically.
The yacht itself looked pretty much the way Owen remembered, and contained all the
original fittings and luxuries, but the Hadenmen hadn't been able to resist improving
things as they went along. And sometimes their ideas of improvements only went to
show how far the augmented men differed from Humanity. Owen could handle doors
that appeared in solid walls as he approached, and lights that turned themselves on and
off as necessary without having to be told, but he rather drew the line at controls that
operated if he only thought about them. After a few near disasters brought about by his
mind wandering at important moments, Owen had decided very firmly to leave the
running of the craft to the ship's computers.
The Hadenmen had also got many of the interior details wrong, in small, disquieting
ways. Floors that sloped or bulged for no obvious reason, chairs that matched
themselves to slightly the wrong shapes, and lights and colors that were subtly
uncomfortable to merely human eyes. Owen held up his left hand and studied it
thoughtfully. The golden metal of the artificial hand, the Hadenmen's other gift to him,
glowed warmly in the lounge's light. He hadn't liked the idea of having Hadenmen
technology connected to him so intimately, but after he lost his own hand fighting the
Grendel alien in the great caverns under the Wolfling World, he'd had no choice but to
accept their gift with thanks. It was a good hand, strong and responsive and practically
invulnerable, and if it felt subtly cold all the time and not altogether his, he could live
with that. He flexed the golden fingers slowly, admiring their fluid grace. He trusted the
hand because he had to; he wasn't so sure about the ship. The Hadenmen might be his
allies for the moment, but a people who had once been officially named the Enemies of

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Simon R. Green - Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War


Humanity, and with good reason, had to remain suspect for all their gifts. There was
always the chance they still had their own, separate, agenda, hidden somewhere in the
ship, the improvements, and possibly even his hand.
Owen sighed. Life hadn't always been this complicated. He studied his reflection in the
mirror on the wall behind him. A man in his mid-twenties stared broodingly back at
him, tall and rangy with dark hair and darker eyes. A man who'd been hard used, and
expected to be harder used in the future. It wasn't that long ago he'd been a simple
scholar, a minor historian of no importance to anyone but himself. Then Lionstone
named him outlaw, and he'd had no choice but to become a rebel and a warrior. The
Hadenmen named him Redeemer, and the rebel underground called him Humanity's
last hope. Owen didn't believe a word of it.
A clinking of glass caught his attention, and he looked fondly over at Hazel d'Ark, who
was sorting determinedly through the bottles in the drinks cabinet, searching for
something vaguely drinkable. Owen knew how she felt. The Hadenmen had done their
best with food synthesizers, but the various alcoholic beverages they'd come up with
had proved universally vile. That hadn't stopped Hazel from drinking them, but she
persisted in trying to discover some combination that didn't leave her with an
overwhelming urge to spit copiously in all directions. Owen admired her patience, and
wished her luck. Personally, he wouldn't have touched any of the stuff if someone had
held a gun to his head.
He studied Hazel, admiring her sharp, pointed face and mane of long, ratty, red hair.
She wasn't conventionally pretty, but then Hazel wasn't conventional about anything if