"Huff, Tanya - What Ho, Magic!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

"Is that good?"
"I am in the middle of the rewrite from hell and you have the nerve to give me this and tell me that it's awfulT Because, of course, it was wonderful.
She's not stupid. "Wow. Scum," she said.
It became our quick way of saying something was really good. It was shorthand for You've completely hooked me and I couldn't put this down.
When she finished Blood Pact, she was living three hours outside of Toronto, but I still got to read the book chapter by chapter, and when I finished it, I phoned her Ц this was before there were cheap long distance rates in Canada Ц to call her scum. It took a long time. I loved that book.
I also had to take three days off writing; I couldn't get it out of my head and when I went back to my own work I could clearly see just where the cadence and humour, the earthiness of her characters, the contemporary accessibility, were missing from mine. This happens every time I read a Huff novel.
Doesn't stop me from reading her books, though.
Nothing I can think of Ц short of the obvious Ц could do that.
So, Tanya Huff is scum.
And you're about to find out why; just turn the page.
Ц Michelle Sagara West October 1998

"The Chase is On", the oldest story in this collection by a considerable margin, is pure space opera. I would never insult the many fine Writers of science fiction by referring to this story as such. There is no science in it.
Space opera; fantasy with ray guns and space marines.
It's a sub genre I've always loved, space opera, and given the continuing reaction to Star Wars and Star Trek, so have a whole lot of people. I've actually pitched a couple of ideas for Star Trek novels but, unfortunately, they went nowhere.
As this collection appears, I'm working on my first novel-length space opera (untitled as yd) probably out from DAW in the spring of 2000. It has nothing to do with Kelly Chase or her universe.

THE CHASE IS ON

"Blundering, incompetent idiot!" roared the Atabeg of Rayanton, Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems. "A simple removal, and you fail dismally!"
The commander of the Atabeg's Immortals, some four thousand men whose loyalty was absolute, stared straight ahead, carefully emotionless, ignoring the spittle that dotted the front of his dress uniform Ц the physical evidence of his lord's rage. To show any emotion in the presence of the Atabeg was unwise, although groveling was acceptable after a certain point in the interview.
"Exalted One," began the officer, wishing that he dared wet his lips. "If I may be permittedЕwe had to deal with his escort first. There were a great many places he could hide, and we had a very small force."
"And may I remind you, Commander," the Atabeg snarled, "that we speak of an eight year old boy." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw tanned fingers fiddling with something on the desk. "Pay attention, Darvish," he snapped. "This concerns you."
Darvish sighed, sat up straighter, and tried to look as if he cared. When the Atabeg turned again to the commander, Darvish let the expression drop and returned to buffing his nails and brooding about the unfairness of his life.
"An eight year old boy," the Atabeg repeated, "who must be removed. When my fat fool of a brother finally gets what's coming to him, my son will be Shahinshah, Defender of Infinity. Do you understand me, Commander? Get rid of that boy!"
"Most assuredly, Exalted One." The commander bowed and backed quickly from the room.
"Uh, FatherЕ"
The Atabeg took a deep breath and faced his son, wondering once again how this exquisite lump, this posturing fop, could be flesh of his. He cursed his brother for the mind blocks that kept him from taking the throne for himself. "I don't want to hear it, Darvish," he said sternly. "You're going to be Shahinshah, and that's all there is to it."
Darvish sighed again.
Some hours later, a nine-man squad of the Atabeg's Immortals moved into defensive positions around the perimeter of docking pit 90. Their squad commander walked slowly toward the docked freighter, gripping his weapon tightly, and trying not to let his nervousness show. He knew that any sign of weakness could precipitate an assassination attempt by one of his men, and at least half the squad felt ready for promotion.
His eyes swept across the gleaming enamel and chrome until they rested on the registration numbers set into the metal by the cargo hatch. He wished he could swear. The independent pilots of Company space were so damned unpredictable; they often shot back. As he closed in on the ship, an external video relay swiveled and pointed directly at him.
"Hold it right there, buddy," boomed a mechanical but still definitely female voice. "Kelly, we've got company."
The squad commander glanced hastily from side to side. He saw no Kelly. A sudden noise brought his eyes back to the ship. He tightened his finger on the trigger as an access panel clanged back, exposing a pair of shapely legs.
The shapely legs kicked, jerked, and emerged, followed by an equally shapely body.
"Who the blazes are you?" she snarled, tossing the wrench she carried into a tool kit and dropping a hand to her sidearm.
This was not the reaction the squad commander usually evoked in tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful young women. It almost startled him into taking a step back; a move his men would surely misinterpret, with fatal results. She moved closer, showing apparent disregard for his superior firepower. His men moved closer as well, although, admittedly, a very little closer. If they had no intention of being reported for cowardice, they had less of being caught in a crossfire.
The squad commander pulled a sheet of hard copy from his belt pouch and handed it over.
She scanned it quickly. "And just why does the Atabeg of Rayanton, Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems, et cetera, et cetera, want to run an energy scan of my ship? His customs brokers searched it when I landed. Everything is in order."
"A search is not an energy scan." He glowered forebodingly, an expression which never failed to strike terror into the hearts of subordinates. The woman didn't appear to notice. His eyes flicked over the sleek lines of the freighter. A pity that simple confiscation no longer remained an option. The empire needed the imports too much to scare the independents off with the one thing that outweighed their desire for profit: the possible loss of their ships. The squad commander sighed. The old ways had been easier. "The Atabeg, may he live forever, thinks you have something on board he wants."
A golden eyebrow rose. "Would you believe me if I said I don't know what you're talking about?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
She dropped to the ground and a raking line of blue fire from the ship turned all ten men into smoldering piles of carbon.
Kelly Chase glanced around at the bodies and shook her head ruefully as she dusted off her knees. Her nose wrinkled in distaste as she stepped over the ruins of the squad commander.
"I've always wondered why they call them Immortals. Nice shooting, Val. A little overdone, but nice shooting."
"Dead's dead, Boss. They don't care how cooked they get." The gun ports closed and a hatch hissed open as the self-aware computer that ran the ship, that was the ship, began to warm the engines for lift-off. "Looks like we'd better blow this joint, huh?"
"Yes," agreed Kelly, "looks like we'd better."
The Atabeg and his son still sat at dinner when the dispatch came in from the commander. Scowling, the Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems snatched the hardcopy from his aide's grasp.
"Morons!" He threw the thin sheet of plastic down into the remains of the first course.
"Did he get away again, Father?" Darvish asked, his perfect brow furrowing as he plucked the message out of the white sauce.