"02 - Battle Cry" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

Now it was Lisa's turn to play the ghost.
She had walked through Riber's quarters, insulated from the harsh atmosphere by her suit, arms extended, gloved fingers reaching out and touching everything in the small room, expectant, in search of something she couldn't identify or name. What was it she hoped to find here? she asked herself. It was as if Karl's clothes, still in the wardrobe closet, his bed, reading light, and phone held clues to some mystery she hoped to unravel.
And now as she sat at his desk, paging through his notebooks and reading the titles of the books stacked there-The Martian Cronicles, Mankind Evolving, Gandhi's Truth-Lisa realized that she would never get over his loss; she would never be able to leave this place. Her life, along with Riber's, had ended here six years ago.
She fell forward onto the open notebooks and began to weep. Claudia was desperately calling to her through the headset, but Lisa already felt disconnected from that present. She switched off the radio transmitter. She was about to raise the faceshield of her helmet when she heard her name called out through a speaker phone of some sort.
On the other side of the room's thick translucent window. she could discern the shape of a Veritech fighter-a veiled Guardian behind a Permaglass gate.
"Commander Hayes," the voice called out. "Please stand back. I'm going to crash my way in."
Quickly, she switched her radio back on.
"Whoever you are, stay away from here. Return to the ship. That's an order."
The fighter pilot paid her no mind.
"Stand back. My orders are to get you out of here."
Before she could speak again, the Guardian's huge hand had smashed through the window and the pilot-Rick Hunter!-was staring at her from the cockpit.
"Climb aboard-quickly! We don't have much time left!"
"I'm not leaving this room!"
"One minute and counting, Commander."
"I don't care! Go on, do you hear me, save yourself!"
She saw him shake his head.
"I don't know what's going on here, but you're coming with me."
And in an instant Lisa was held fast in the grip of the Guardian's hand. It was useless to struggle; the Veritech was already backing away from the barracks building and preparing for takeoff.
She found herself reaching out toward Riber's room nevertheless, clinging to it with all the strength she could summon, screaming out his name as the fighter launched itself and sped from the burning base.

Khyron pressed the attack, urging his forces onward with calls to glory and promises of promotion; when those failed, he resorted to simple threats and imprecations. Several times during the exercise he had decided to deal out punishments on the spot, and occasionally he had been forced to sacrifice the innocent. But this was all part of the warrior's life, not regrettable but expected behavior.
It had been a glorious battle-up until now.
The Micronians had begun to retreat toward Zor's ship, a retreat with at least three-quarters of their original forces still occupying the arena. He was confused and angered. Were the Micronians such spineless creatures that they would choose surrender over death in battle? Zor's ship, held fast by the gravity mines, wasn't going anywhere, so what did these fools expect to gain by a retreat? It would only mean a nastier mop-up operation for Khyron's troops. The space fortress would have to be stormed, or perhaps he would decide to starve them out; but in either case the end result would be death, so why not go out fighting?
Gerao was reporting certain anomalies in the gravity mine field-some sort of pressure buildup the sensors had yet to identify-but with the Micronians on the run, this was hardly the moment for caution or indecisiveness. Khyron would have the enemy captain's head before nightfall!
The Zentraedi forces had routed the enemy from the base, and their commander was about to join them there, when the surface of the planet began to quake with unnatural force. Some massive explosion deep below ground level was working its way upward. And when it broke the planet's skin, it was greater than anyone-Zentraedi or Earthling-might have expected.
In an instant, the base and most of Khyron's occupying army were obliterated as a tower of raw unleashed energy shot from within the planet. Through the blinding glow of the initial explosion, Khyron could see Zor's ship lifting off, just moments before a second explosion of equivalent force atomized what was left of the area.
Khyron's Officer's Pod was far enough away to withstand the blast, heat, and follow-up shock waves and firestorms.
Madness, Khyron thought. Madness!
He raised the cockpit shield of the Battlepod and sat for a moment in stunned silence. Thick clouds of rust-colored dust were being sucked into the area. Zor's ship was just a preternatural shimmer in the Martian sky. The Micronians had surprised him.
Unpredictability was something to fear and respect in an opponent. But failure in battle was something that could not be tolerated.
He vented his anger by smashing his fists into the console of the Battlepod, then collapsed back into the seat, spent. He reached out for the dried leaves of the Flower of Life, ingesting several of these and urging their narcotic effect to wash over him. Ultimately Khyron smiled maliciously. He gazed up at the dwindling space fortress and said aloud:
"We'll meet again, Micronians. And next time I will give you no quarter."


CHAPTER SEVEN
I admit it: In those early days I had trouble playing by the rules. Of course, ultimately I learned to return salutes, use the proper phrases, demonstrate respect for my superior officers, and generally behave like a model Robotech soldier. But I continued to have real problems with the system of promotion. If it had been up to me, medals would have been handed out to everyone who went out there. There wasn't one among us who wasn't deserving; not one among us who wasn't qualified to lead.
The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter

There was a special data chamber in Breetai's flagship that was off limits to all but the highest-ranking officers of the Zentraedi elite. In here were stored the historical records of the Zentraedi race: documentation of past victories, military campaigns, great moments in the lives of great warrior leaders. In addition to these were banks of information relating to the Invid and several dozen other sentient life forms that inhabited the Fourth Quadrant of the galactic local group. As chief science officer and transcultural adviser on all issues dealing with interracial contact (more frequently, conquest), it was Exedore's duty to commit to memory a vast amount of this accumulated lore and knowledge. Indeed, this room belonged more to the misshapen Zentraedi than to any other. And the more he delved into data pertaining to the Micronians, the more apprehensive he became. The pursuit of Zor's ship, and this continued contact with the ship's Micronian warriors, was destined to end in unprecedented failure-an undoing of all that had been carefully laid down and preserved for millennia. Try as he might, Exedore could not put this thought from his mind. If the Zentraedi were defeated, what then could stand in the way of the dreaded Invid?
He had mentioned these misgivings to Breetai, careful to couch his phrases in such a way that no fear or cowardice could be inferred; he had even gone so far as to quote some of the documents to the commander, pointing out the specific warnings about contact with the Micronians. Legends which spoke of a Micronian secret weapon that would be used against any invading race. But his words fell on deaf ears. Breetai was, after all, a military tactician; like most of his race he lived and breathed for battle and warfare-the Zentraedi were born to this. Moreover there was some unspoken fascination at work here, as if in some half-understood way Breetai too was aware of Exedore's thoughts about destiny and undoing.
Just now the two Zentraedi were standing together in the observation bubble of the bridge. The SDF-1, in high relief against a starlit crescent of this system's fourth planet, filled the forward screen. Khyron's forces, though unsuccessful in capturing the ship when it had been lured into Breetai's trap, had nonetheless prevented the Micronians from gaining any distance to their homeworld.
"It amazes me that they have managed to come this far," said Breetai.
"Yes, Commander, and they will fight more fiercely as they near their planet. I fear that the ship itself may be destroyed long before we can enforce a surrender."
Breetai became agitated. "That must not be allowed to happen, Exedore. My orders have been most specific: I want the fortress captured intact and undamaged. The ship is our primary concern, not the people in it."
"Sir, I fear that Khyron understands destruction only. `Capture' is too subtle a strategy for him to comprehend."
Breetai shot his adviser a look. "Khyron is a Zentraedi. He'll do as he's ordered or face the consequences."
Exedore bowed slightly. "Certainly, my lord."
Would that it were so, he thought. And did the Micronian commander in charge of Zor's ship have similar issues to deal with, or were orders carried out without question at all times? Like the Zentraedi, the Micronians were a warlike race; but had they too arrived at that evolutionary point where individual initiative was willingly relinquished for the greater glory of the whole? The data documents were not clear on this point.
Exedore stared at the fortress, as if attempting to project himself onboard. What were the Micronians planning? he wondered. What would any one member of that race be thinking at this very moment?