"Peter F. Hamilton - Escape Route" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

ecliptic. It was a superb vantage point. The small orange star burned at the centre of a disc 160 million
kilometres in diameter. There were no distinct bands like those found in a gas giant's rings, this was a
continuous grainy copper mist veiling half of the universe. Only around the star itself did it fade away;
whatever particles were there to start with had long since evaporated to leave a clear band three million
kilometres wide above the turbulent photosphere.
Lady Mac was accelerating away from the star at a 20th of a gee, and curving round into a
retrograde orbit. It was the vector which would give the magnetic arrays the best possible coverage of
the disc. Unfortunately, it increased the probability of collision by an order of magnitude. So far, the radar
had only detected standard motes of interplanetary dust, but Marcus insisted there were always two
crew on duty monitoring the local environment.
"Time for another launch," he announced.
Wai datavised the flight computer to run a final systems diagnostic through the array satellite. "I notice
Jorge isn't here again," she said sardonically. "I wonder why that is?"
Jorge Leon was the second companion Antonio Ribeiro had brought with him on the flight. He'd
been introduced to the crew as a first-class hardware technician who had supervised the construction of
the magnetic array satellites. As introverted as Antonio was outgoing, he'd shown remarkably little
interest in the arrays so far. It was Victoria Keef who'd familiarized the crew with the systems they were
deploying.
"We should hunghim in our medical scanner," Karl suggested cheerfully. "Be interesting to see what's
inside him. Bet you'd find a whole load of weapon implants."
"Great idea," Roman said. "You ask him. He gives me the creeps."
"Yeah, Katherine, explain that away," Karl said. "If there's no gold in the disc, how come they
brought a contract killer along to make sure we don't fly off with their share?"
"Karl!" Marcus warned. "That's enough." He gave the open floor hatch a pointed look. "Now let's
get the array launched, please."
Karl's face reddened as he began establishing a tracking link between the starship's communication
system and the array satellite's transponder.
"Satellite systems on line," Wai reported. "Launch when ready."
Marcus datavised the flight computer to retract the satellite's hold-down latches. An induction rail
shot it clear of the ship. Ion thrusters flared, refining its trajectory as it headed down towards the squally
apricot surface of the disc.
 Victoria had designed the satellites to skim 5,000 kilometres above the nomadic particles. When their
operational altitude was established they would spin up and start to reel out 25 gossamer-thin optical
fibres. Rotation ensured the fibres remained straight, forming a spoke array parallel to the disc. Each fibre
was 150 kilometres long, and coated in a reflective, magnetically sensitive film.
As the disc particles were still within the star's magnetosphere, every one of them generated a tiny
wake as it traversed the flux lines. It was that wake which resonated the magnetically sensitive film,
producing fluctuations in the reflectivity. By bouncing a laser pulse down the fibre and measuring the
distortions inflicted by the film, it was possible to build up an image of the magnetic waves writhing
chaotically through the disc. With the correct discrimination programmes, the origin of each wave could
be determined.
The amount of data streaming back into the Lady Macbeth from the array satellites was colossal.
One satellite array could cover an area of 250,000 square kilometres, and Antonio Ribeiro had
persuaded the Sonora Autonomy Crusade to pay for 15. It was a huge gamble, and the responsibility
was his alone. Forty hours after the first satellite was deployed, the strain of that responsibility was
beginning to show. He hadn't slept since then, choosing to stay in the cabin which Marcus Calvert had
assigned to them, and where they'd set up their network of analysis processors. Forty hours of his mind
being flooded with nearincomprehensible neuroiconic displays. Forty hours spent fingering his silver
crucifix and praying.
The medical monitor programme running in his neural nanonics was flashing up fatigue toxin cautions,