"Benjamin D. Hutchins - Future Imperfect- Checkmate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hutchins Benjamin D)

"GENOM #909-GA, you are cleared to land on pad 44, approach
vector niner four. Do you copy?"
"Copy, Avalon Control. 909-GA out."
GENOM #909-GA, an old-fashioned BTL-A4 Myrmidon hyperdrive-
capable starfighter, touched smoothly down on pad 44, coming to a halt
perfectly between the lines, and the ground crew came out to tie it
down and service it. As they did so, the mirrored cockpit canopy slid
back slowly, and the pilot removed her helmet, shook out her long,
thick red hair, and climbed up and out, kicking down the folding
ladder.
"My God," the crew chief said, looking over the Myrmidon.
Its steel-grey thermocoat was scarred and pitted in several spots.
One micrometeorite impact had removed most of the port-side GENOM
logo, a design which dated to the days shortly before the Old WDF's
collapse. The numbers and what remained of the logo were faded, and
the coaming under the cockpit canopy bore no name.
"I haven't seen one of these things in decades," the chief
continued, reaching out as if he didn't believe it could exist and
touching the side of the craft. "Looks like you flew it through Hell
to get here, miss."
"You might say that," said the woman with a smile. "Take good
care of it, will you? I've had it... for a long time now."
"Sure thing, miss. Want us to recoat it for you?"
"No, don't bother... just a good field servicing will do."
The woman got a large, long bag out of the storage compartment
underneath the side of the cockpit, then walked toward the terminal,
pulling off her flight gloves as she did so and flexing out her
cramped fingers. It had been a long flight...
She raised some eyebrows when she entered the terminal
complex; between her extreme attractiveness and the fact that she
looked very tired and very tousled, she accounted for most of the
people there. The rest were probably looking at her Old GENOM
flightsuit, a century out of date and rumpled as hell, the cockpit
connection hardpoints corroded. It looked as if she had stolen it
from a particularly sloppy museum.
She stopped and leaned elbows-forward on the desk which
blocked her way into the main part of the building; presently a young
man in a neat black suit came over and asked if he could help her.
"I hope so," she replied, sounding tired and slightly
distressed. "I need an entrance permit."
"Citizenship?"
"Um... United Galactica."
He looked at her strangely.
"Is there a problem?"
"Miss, the United Galactica has not existed for over fifty
years."
She looked back at him, perplexed. "Er... I'm from Niogi,
wherever that is now. Uh, and if you don't mind telling me, what's
the date today?"
"It's the fourteenth."