"Peter F. Hamilton - Fallen Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

friend's expression. "Sure, Lawrence, you can rely on me. What sort of mass are
we talking about?"
"I don't know for certain. But if I'm right, about a backpack per man. It'll be
enough to buy a management stake for each of us."
 "Hot damn! Easy meat."
They touched the rims of their tins and drank to that. Lawrence saw three of
the locals nod in agreement, and stand up.
"You got a car?" he asked Colin.
"Sure: you said not to use the train."
"Get to it. Get clear. I'll take care of this."
Colin looked at the approaching men, making the calculation. He wasn't
frontline, hadn't been for years. "See you on Thallspring." He jammed on his
stupid hat and took the three steps to the back door.
Lawrence stood up and faced the men, sighing heavily. It was the wrong day
for them to go around pissing on trees to mark their territory. This bar had been
carefully chosen so the meeting would go unnoticed by anyone at Z-B. And
Thallspring was going to be the last shot he'd ever get at any kind of a decent
future. That didn't leave him with a lot of choice.
The one at the front, the biggest, naturally, had the tight smile of a man who
knew he was about to score the winning goal. His two compadres were sidling
up behind, one barely out of his teens, swigging from a tin, the other in a slim
denim waistcoat that showed off glowmote tattoos distorted by old knife scars.
An invincible trio.
It would start with one of them making some comment: Thought you company
people were too good to drink with us. Not that it mattered what was actually said.
The act of speaking was a way of ego pumping until one of them was hot enough
to throw the first punch. Same dumb-ass ritual in every low-life bar on every
human planet.
"Don't," Lawrence said flatly, before they got started. "Just shut up and go sit
down. I'm leaving, okay."
The big fella gave his friends a knowing I-told-you-he-was-chickenshit grin
and snorted contempt for Lawrence's bravado. "You ain't going nowhere,
company boy." He drew his huge fist back.
Lawrence tilted from the waist, automatic and fast. His leg kicked out, boot
heel smashing into the big fella's knee. The one in the denim waistcoat picked up
a chair and swung it at Lawrence's head. Lawrence's thick right arm came up to
block the unwieldy club. One leg of the chair hit full on, just above his elbow,
and stopped dead. Its impact didn't even make Lawrence blink, let alone grunt in
pain. The man staggered back as his balance was slung all to hell. It was like he'd
hit solid stone. He stared at Lawrence's arm, eyes widening as realization
hammered through the drink.
All around the bar, men were pushing back chairs and rising. Coming to help
their mates.
"No!" the man in the waistcoat shouted. "He's in Skin!"
It made no difference. The youngster was going for the big bowie knife in his
belt scabbard, and nobody was paying any attention to warnings as they closed
in.
 Lawrence raised his right arm high, punching the air. He could feel a gentle
rippling against his wrists as peristaltic muscles brought the darts forward out of
their magazine sacs into launch tubules. A ring of small dry slits peeled open