"Ardath Mayhar - Shock Treatment" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mayhar Ardath)

He looked up at the monitors, where the ordinary life of the Stronghold went about its business. Between
two of them hung a painting, which caught his eye with wistful recognition. A woman, beautiful and
ancient, stared back at him as if she knew and approved what he had done. He had known her through
her years of ruthless rule and her gradual reformation.

Seleva. The Old One. Alive still? He didn't remember. But she had been a one, that woman. It was a
wonder Standish had allowed her to live, after she abdicated her position in his favor. Or had he had the
ability to kill her at all? Others had tried and failed.

***

Standish stirred, and Jeroboah's image disappeared from the room. When Theron opened his eyes it was
to find nothing amiss in his sanctum. The Commander pushed himself up with both hands to stand beside
the console. His glasses had fallen, and he fumbled blindly, bending to

feel across the carpet until he located them. Then he stared about the room, up at the monitors, even at
his grandmother's portrait.

What had happened here? Was the stress of his great work affecting his mind?

He shuddered and turned again to the lists, the movements, the many-faceted elements of his conquest of
those who dared to prefer their own freedom to the achievement of his aims. If he was hallucinating, it
was best kept to himself. And if he was not?

He refused to consider that possibility.




Chapter Two
Blood-Muck



The rumble and mutter of engines vibrated the air and the stony soil underfoot. The composite sole of
Falville's boot conveyed the feeling into his toes, up through his legs into his belly. He groaned inaudibly
and flopped into the roadside ditch.

The mud smelled of old deaths and too much blood. The tall weeds, nourished by the unexpected
fertilizer of man-flesh over the past months, made good cover, however, once he crawled out of the
muck and into the higher side of the cleft. He slid backward, feeling on either

side of him the movements of the men he led.

Beyond the shattered remnant of a fence there was a field of grain. Or had been. Most of it had been
leveled by the fire-fight that had taken place there within the past few days. Falville had learned to gauge
such things. No more than three days had gone by since the sizzling bolts and the pinging slugs had ripped
through, harvesting the unripe grain.