"Keith Laumer - Bolos 6 - Cold Steel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

regiment of them rusting in a scrap yard on some moon somewhere."
Tyrus looked at the shining sweep of the hull and felt his mind slipping back to another place
and time, a place of fire, a time of war. "Bolos don't rust. After a few centuries on a planet like
this, they might develop a surface patina. But they don't rust, and they don't bleed, and they don't
ever, ever die."
"Excuse me?"
He looked at Dyson. "That's why they diverted me here, isn't it? Why they dragged me and
my family into what amounts to a combat zone. I've had combat experience."
Dyson nodded. "This situation has developed very quickly and unexpectedly. The 4800's
were already ordered as part of a trial program. You were already in the sector. You have the
skills we needed. And youтАФknow about Bolos."
"I've fought on the same side as Bolos, Dyson. That's a whole different thing. Maybe Bolo
commanders are comfortable with those things, but I was infantry, and I never served with a man
who wasn't rattled by them, who didn't spend as much time looking over his shoulder at his own
Bolos as he did looking at the enemy line. What in heaven's name made you want to convert one
into a blasted tractor?"
Dyson was starting to look annoyed. "I told you, we bought it, we didn't think it up. You've
heard the losses we've experienced here. Three machines just last month. Out away from the
colonies and the fixed defenses, they're essentially vulnerable against even light weapons. We've
taken to issuing pulse rifles to all our crews, welded some makeshift armor to the control cabs,
but the losses continue. These aliensтАФnativesтАФwhatever they are, somehow didn't show up on
our surveys, so we never imagined it would be an issue. But this," he waved at the Bolo again,
"was marketed as a solution for mining on 'hostile worlds.' They simply don't get much more
hostile than this. The rest of our machines are vulnerable, but the Prescott 4800тАФ"
"The Bolo."
"Whatever . . . It can take the kind of attacks we've been experiencing. We can send it into the
most isolated and dangerous areas with impunity. They won't be able to hurt it, and maybe we
can learn something. Learn how to protect the rest of our equipment."
Tyrus cursed under his breath. "You have no idea of the trouble you've caused me personally,
bringing me here. I suppose you want me to work this beast into the maintenance rotation here?"
Dyson looked away. "Actually, we already have a pretty good maintenance chief at the
colony. We were hoping that you'd run the 4800 for us."
Tyrus blinked his eyes in disbelief. "You want me to command a Bolo?"
***
Whitestar shifted the hand-forged blade in his hand, feeling the comfortable way his clawlike
fingers held the grip, the natural way that the handle cradled against the long bones of his hand. It
was a good blade, good balance, a weapon he understood, one that became an extension of his
arm. The knife pleased him, made him glad to be alive. The weapons provided by the Ones
Above were powerful, but clumsy and unnatural. Only with a blade in his hand did he feel like a
fresh-hatched warrior again.
The afternoon breeze ruffled his fur and carried the smell of wood smoke from a nearby
burrow. He was dimly aware of his fellow clansmen gathering around the circle, clicking their
jaws in rhythm, the ancient ceremony of challenge. Some part of his mind dimly registered all
this, cataloged it, filtered it for any undetected threat, but his focus, his combat-eye, was entirely
on the smaller Tersae across the circle. His name was Warrior Twostone, and he was trying with
all his might to kill Whitestar, his clan-lord.
Twostone lunged, his long, curved blade flashing in the dappled sunlight that filtered through
the trees.
Agile for his greater size, Whitestar turned away from the thrust, hooked Twostone's blade
with his own and pulled, throwing the warrior off balance. He brought his foot around and kicked