"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 04 - Alien Salute" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

They were among the last of the evacuees to be processed. "You have to
accept, if Pepys asks you. You're the only one left who knows how to fight a
тАШPureтАЩ war. Anyone can wear a suitтАФ"

He looked down at her and his mouth twitched. "тАФwell, not anyone, but
no one understands the warfare the way you do."

"I know," he said then, heavily.

The freighter seemed to groan around them as it picked up acceleration
speed. It would take days to hit warp speed, weeks in transit, and then days
of deceleration. Those days would pass as if in a dream to the vast bulk of
its passengers.

Amber pressed her fingers into his armor. "And then we can talk."

Storm shifted his weight uneasily. He did not like the prospect of cold
sleep, never had, never would. A nurse came by, still in sterile greens, and
Jack stepped out to block his passage.

"I don't want any of these people on a debriefing loop."

The nurse came to a startled halt. His face was narrow and his chin
pointed, giving him a feral look. "We take our orders from Emperor
PepysтАФ"

"Not now you don't. I don't want any of those evacuees stressed out.
They won't forget what happened." He felt Amber shudder at his side. As if
any of them could forget the bloody civil uprising out of which they were
being emergency lifted, compounded by the ever-present, ever-dangerous
Thraks and the rumors of war.

The nurse sniffed. "Of course, commander." He hurried past then,
skirting around the battle-armored man with caution.

Jack smiled. Too tired to do so, he couldn't hold it, and the expression
faded rapidly from his face.
 Amber relaxed a little. "Thanks, Jack," she said softly.

"Not just for you. I don't trust the debriefing loops." He looked out over
the hold as another small group of evacuees pressed forward into the
medical bay. Far ahead of them stood St. Colin of the Blue Wheel, watched
over by his lumbering bodyguard and aide, Jonathan. The Walker prelate
leaned on a cane, injured but hearty nonetheless. Fine gray and chestnut
hairs strayed across a balding head, but his chin was square and his massive
hands gestured as he talked to the group surrounding him. His preaching
voice reached Jack. The man in battle armor shifted his weight, temporarily
warmed by what Colin was saying. Nearby stood young Denaro, also a
Walker, but looking sullen in his uniform, weapon belts crisscrossed over his
chest, his militancy a kind of insult to his affiliation. Storm frowned as he