"Richard Hatch - Battlestar Galactica 3 - Resurrection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hatch Richard)

He turned and walked from the bridge, followed by Gar'Tokk. Apollo
had built up his defenses to guard his heart against the hard world in
which he had to live, to ward off the blows of fate thrown at him by a
sometimes seemingly indifferent universe, but there was no defense for
this. How does one guard against simple kindness?
CHAPTER TWO
THE HEART of the shipтАФthe true heartтАФwas not the bridge or the
mighty engines that propelled it through the void, but its sanctuary.

Once, it had been Adama's, his place of quiet, the refuge he sought
when the weight of all the worlds threatened to crush his spirit and break
his heart. Apollo had known of its existence for several yahren, but until
this moment, he had perhaps never understood completely the need for
such a place.

The room itself was just a room, not blessed with any magical
properties, except that it was where Apollo felt closest to his father, and
there was magic in that. Star charts, drawn from legend, and etchings of
galaxies that unwound like clocksprings, filled the otherwise cold and
gleaming, featureless walls. Occupying the center of the room stood a tall,
high-backed chair of ancient wood, one of the few such pieces still in
existence among the entire fleet.

Directly opposite this antique seat was a computer that was even older,
perhaps by as much as five centuries, and still it was more advanced than
the rest of the electronic intelligence aboard the Galactica or any of the
other ships in the fleet. Its one red eye light stared back at Apollo,
comforting and disquieting all at once.

The computer was almost organic in its design, with sides that curved
with a graceful flow, upward and outward. It always made Apollo think of
an old friend waiting with opened arms to receive the careworn traveler.
After all, the computer did convey Adama's final holographic recording to
Apollo after the old man's death, like some kind of binary seance.

Apollo hoped, foolishly, he knew, there might be another message from
his father hidden away in cold logic chips, waiting for the right moment to
play. Well, if that were true, this would be that moment; he could use his
father's level-headed wisdom now.

He held the Star of Kobol in his hands, tracing his thumbs over its
frictionless surface, thinking nothing as best he could, losing himself, his
individuality, in the whorls of light that raced and eddied across the stone,
like strange, deep-sea marine life.

Apollo slowed his breathing, and his heart rate dropped
correspondingly.

He could feel himself slipping away, his mind slipping free of its
moorings, no longer part of anything and thus, becoming a part of