"Christopher Hinz - Paratwa 03 - The Paratwa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hinz Christopher)

crayonsтАФbegan to shine. In the daytime, the black Costeau often wore a hat, but when a Colony's
mirrors rotated into darkness, she exposed her shaved skull and the shiny photo-luminescent streaks.

Blue lines and red lines, crisscrossing the crown of her head, all freshly painted each morning, as
important to Buff as any other aspect of her daily grooming. Blue lines and red

lines, each bound by the faint perimeter of her natural hairline, each glowing, like a nest of wet snakes.
Buff was of the clan of the Cerniglias, but the painted streaks remained universal Costeau symbols. Blue
for mourning. Red for vengeance. With Costeaus, the two colors often went together.

Buff had painted herself every morning for nearly a month and vowed to continue the ritual until she
found the Paratwa assassinтАФthe one who had been terrorizing the Irryan Colonies for the past five
months. The one whose tripartite selfтАФ three discrete physical bodies controlled by a solitary,
telepathically interlaced consciousnessтАФremained unique among known Paratwa breeds. The one whose
brutal massacres, throughout the orbiting cylinders, had been linked to the imminent return of the Paratwa
starships.

The one who had killed her friend Martha.
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ImpletonтАФfat, pale-skinned, wearing a knee-length pink corselet coatтАФcraned his neck and muttered
something to Buff. She paused at the entrance to the bottleneck, waited for Gillian to catch up.

"He says Faquod's not here yet."

Gillian went hyper alert. Senses, normally diluted by a wide range of environmental stimuli, focused;
muscles prepped for instantaneous response. His tongue slithered along the tiny rubber pads attached to
his bicuspids and molarsтАФthe activation circuitry for the hidden crescent web hardware strapped around
his waist. One snap of the jaw and the defensive field would ignite, form a near-invisible sheath along the
front and rear contours of his six-foot frame, a barrier capable of deflecting projectile and energy
weapons alike. And hidden in the sleeve covering his right forearm, gripped securely in a slip-wrist
holster, lay a pale egg with a tiny needle protruding from one end.

His Cohe wand: a device infinitely rare and highly illegal, the original weapon of the Paratwa assassins
from the days before the decimation of Earth, over two-and-a-half centuries ago. The Cohe was devilish
to control, requiring years of training to become proficient in its more subtle capabilities. But once
mastered, it was a weapon that bore no equal. Impleton sucked in his gut and said loudly, "Faquod, he
will be along shortly."

Two other figures were poised in the bottleneck. To Gillian's right, a well-groomed man with a
sawed-off beard leaned against the wall, one hand tucked under his black coat. And across the alley,
seated on a four-foot-high ledge, was a blond-haired muscle boy, grinning like a scuddie. The youth was
stripped to the waist. Bulging pectorals bore tattoos of ancient motorized cycles and the cryptic phrase,
I'm a Harley in Heat, was printed neatly above his navel.

Buff scowled. "You said he'd be waiting here for us."