"09 - The Final Nightmare" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

But the Humans weren't the Masters' only opposition; they weren't the most formidable enemies. The mounds were guarded by invisible Protoculture entities-three strange, mysterious, and sinister wraiths.
The wraiths had manifested themselves once-or rather, they had permitted the Masters to perceive them. They were cloaked and cowled fire-eyed specters-ghosts whose power stymied the Masters' efforts to find out exactly where the Matrix lay. Without that information, it was impossible for the Masters to use simple brute force to rip the Matrix from the mounds; that would risk damaging the thing they had come so far to retrieve. The Masters weren't sure yet what other powers or designs the wraiths might have.
And now, to complicate matters further, local perturbations were hampering the performance of the Masters' cloned slave populace. "Yes, that might be our problem with Zor Prime," Shaizan was saying. "We've had some trouble with him, almost from the first moment when he was set down among the Humans. His neuro-sensor has been malfunctioning."
Not that Zor Prime, cloned from tissue samples of the slain original Zor, greatest genius of his race and discoverer of Protoculture, hadn't been of some use. Divested of his memories, the clone had been dispatched among the Terrans as an unwitting spy, so that the Masters could see through his eyes and hear through his ears.
The Masters were also hoping that the trauma of being among the local primitives, and being on the planet to which the original Zor had dispatched the Protoculture Matrix so long ago, would spur Zor's memory. Perhaps they could get Zor Prime to tell them why the Matrix had been sent, precisely where it was, and how to get it back from both the Humans and the invisible wraithlike Protoculture entities who guarded the mounds that hid it.
Dag, second among the Masters, had a slightly more prognathous jaw than the others. He said, "It seems the Human behavioral dysfunction known as emotions may be responsible for this malfunction."
Bowkaz, third of the Masters, nodded, his brows nearly meeting as his frown deepened. "Yes. These emotions destabilize the proper functioning of the healthy brain and the rational mind."
"What is your will then, Masters?" asked Jeddar, leader of the Clonemaster triumvirate-their chief slaves-bowing humbly before them.
"Hmm," Shaizan said, gazing down on him. "You would like our permission to carry out this plan of yours, no doubt."
The Clonemaster kowtowed. "Yes, my lord. We believe it will be our key to a quick, decisive victory. We only need your approval."
The Masters touched hands to their Protoculture cap. Wherever one of the nailless, spiderlike hands touched a mottled area of the mushroom-shaped cap, the mottled area came alight with the power of Protoculture. The Masters swiftly and silently came to a consensus.

The barracks housing the 15th squad, Alpha Tactical Armored Corps-ATAC-was a truncated cone a dozen stories high, of smoky blue glass and gleaming blue tile (the most modern of polymers) set on a framework of blued alloy. It was a large complex even though it only served as housing and operational facility to a few people; much of the aboveground area was filled with parts and equipment storage and repair areas, armory, kitchen and dining and lavatory space, and so on. In many ways it was a self-contained world.
At the ground and basement levels were the mecha servicing and repair stations, and the motor stables filled with parked Hovercycles and other conventional vehicles, along with the giant Hovertanks-the 15th's primary mecha.
Up in her quarters, Dana wasn't thinking about any kind of machinery just then. Agonizing over what to wear for her date with Zor, she flung every skirt, dress, and blouse in her closet in different directions, draping them with lingerie.
There was, no doubt, something in the regs about officers dating privates, but Zor was a different case. He had been placed with the 15th in the hope that military service would help him recover his missing memory, and that exposure to Earth-style social interaction and bonding would sway him against his former Masters.
When it came to social interaction, Dana was more than ready. It wasn't just that Zor was dreamy looking and a little disoriented. There was also the fact that he was alien, as was Dana's mother. She sometimes wondered if it was blood calling to blood.
Long before she had actually seen him, Dana had felt inexplicable emotions and experienced strange Visions bearing on the red Bioroid Zor piloted. Something within drew her to Zor.
Now, as she hurried into the unit ready-room, which doubled as a rec room during off-duty hours, she tried to set all that aside and concentrate on having a good time.
Decked out in a frilly skirt and silk blouse, she was all set to yell Hi Zor! I'm here! Only-it wasn't Zor she found there.
Squad Sergeant Angelo Dante stepped away from the autobar (it was after duty hours, and the cybernetic mixologist would dispense alcohol to troopers who were certified offduty) and strolled over toward her. "Well, well! Aren't we looking awfully chic tonight?"
She tried to act nonchalant; she wanted to enjoy herself with Zor and not start off the evening with another row with Angelo. "Have you seen Zor around?"
In the days before the First Robotech War (after which an almost medieval cluster of city-states had banded in a loose hegemony to fill the vacuum of world rule and form the United Earth Government-the UEG) soldiers had had less autonomy and more discipline, so the old salts liked to say. If so, she would have welcomed a reversion to those old days.
If she kicked Angelo's feet out from under him and mashed a coffee table over his head, Southern Cross Command might not consider the act a necessary disciplinary measure and it could cause sociodynamic strains. Besides, Angelo was awfully tough.
Dana restrained herself, but resolved to command his loyalty-even if it meant inviting the very big, very strong, and quick NCO to step downstairs to the motor stables and have it out-before another day passed. There was no way two people could run a Hovertank squad, or any other unit.
Angelo smiled spitefully. "Yeah. I bet if he had seen you in your prom queen rig, he would have never asked Nova out tonight."
"Nova? Nova Satori?"
Angelo buffed his nails on his torso harness. Dana considered decking him; he was large, but she was used to fighting for everything she had ever gotten, and if she could get in the first shot...
"Uh-huh," he said. "Let's see now: something about dinner, and the theater afterwards."
He backed away suddenly as she came at him with clenched fists, ready to spit brimstone and, he could see from the way she held herself, do some damage.
She was raving. "That no-good two-timer! That sneaking alien! He's getting more Human every day!"
Angelo was fending her off. "Well now, ma'am, maybe all he needs is a bit of compassion, remember?" That was what she had said to him, back when Angelo was about to take Zor's face off.
"You're enjoying this, huh?" she seethed at him. Then she had an image of suitable revenge. She held up the two movie tickets. "Well, I guess you'll just have to escort me, big boy!"
Angelo's face fell and he made some odd sounds before he found the words. "Uh, ah, thanks, Lieutenant, but I'll pass-"
"You ain't reading me, Sergeant! It's an order!"

The Clonemasters' update was even more bleak than had been anticipated.
"My lord, our reservoirs of Protoculture power are running dry. The effects of this are being felt throughout the fleet. Our new clonelings are lethargic and unresponsive; the effectiveness of our weapons is limited; and our defensive shields cannot be maintained full-time. If we do not secure a large infusion of Protoculture, we are doomed."
As Jeddar spoke, the humpish Protoculture cap of the Masters showed them, by mind-image, the deteriorating situation in all six of the enormous mother ships. Where the Protoculture energies had once coursed through them like highways of incandescence or arterial systems of pure, godlike force, those flows were now reduced to unsteady rivulets. It was like looking into one huge, dying organism.

Elsewhere in the colossal flagship, six clones-two triumvirates-faced off, five against one.
On the one side was Musica, ethereal weaver of song, Mistress of the Cosmic Harp, whose melodies gave shape and effect to the mental force with which the Clonemasters controlled their subjects. She was pale and delicate looking, slender, with long, deep green hair.
To one side were her two clone sisters, Octavia and Allegra, both of them subdued and frightened by the very idea of discord. And across from Musica was the triumvirate of Guard leaders: tall, fit, limber military males who were now unified in their anger as much as in their plasm.
Lieutenant Karno spoke for them. His long hair was a fiery red; he spoke with uncharacteristic anger, for a slave of the Masters. "Musica, it is not your place to decide how things shall be!"
Another, Darsis, looking like Karno's duplicate, agreed, "It has been decided for us and you have no say in the matter!"
Sookol, the third, added, "That is our way, as it has been since the beginning of time!"
Musica, eyes lowered to the carpeted deck, trembled at the heresy she was committing. And yet she said, "Yes, I know that. We've been chosen for each other as mates, and we must resign ourselves to it. But-that doesn't change the fact that we are strangers, we Muses and you Guards."
Karno's brows knit, as if she were speaking in some language he had never heard before. "But...what does that matter?"
Musica gave him a pleading look, then averted her eyes again. "I want so much to accept the Masters' decision and believe that it is right, but something very strange within me keeps saying that the Masters cannot be right if their decision makes me feel this way."
"`Feel'?" Karno repeated. Could she have contracted some awful plague from the Humans when the primitives from Earth managed to board the flagship for that brief foray?