"Jack McKinney - Robotech Sentientals 4 - World Killers" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

That escape was closed to him, though.
Rem laid his head to his chest and sobbed. Deep in the hin, he felt the
sunlight jeering at him, his fear-sweat turning to acid against his skin,
panic closing off his windpipe.
He heard the creak as the Regent rose from his chair. "Above all things,
I despise stubbornness. That, I punish."

Lynn-Minmei tried to stop the passageway from spinning as she lurched
along, her hand held by the mysterious VT pilot; she was barefoot and
disheveled, sick with the drinks she had downed but sicker still with her
latest and worst glimpse of Human nature.
Not that she'd meant to drink a lot; she had nothing but contempt for
drunkards. But life as the consort of General T. R. Edwards was a little
easier to bear after a round or two. And then there was the drink itself-from
Edwards's private bottle-something she had heard the top-echelon officers
jokingly call weed-whacker.
It was a 150-proof vacuum distillate that had been soaked in fibers from
a plant related to the Flower of Life, and strained out again. Brackish;
deadly. But oddly smooth and warming.
Best taken by the slow shot glass.
But, she had needed something to fortify her as she sat there and
listened to Edwards-the man Minmei had thought she loved, the man to whom she
had given herself-reveal himself as a devil incarnate.
She was dizzy, and thought she might lose her balance, or her lunch-she
had had no dinner. "Wait, wait," she puffed, breathless. Her head spun, and
she tasted bile in the back of her throat.
The VT pilot stopped and turned to her, gesturing in a way that made it
clear he was concerned about her. Minmei brushed her hair out of her eyes yet
again, to study him. "Do I know you? Who are you?"
He was tall and lean, and demonstrated a supple strength. Behind the
tinted facebowl of his flight helmet, all she could discern was the dark,
thick beard. He regarded her for a moment, then answered, "It says right here:
REF Service # 666-60-937."
She could see that, and his flight officer's insignia and unit flash.
But his name tape, stitched over his left breast pocket, was unfamiliar: Isle,
L. His voice, coming through the helmet's tinny external speaker, was
unrecognizable.
Her mystery savior was wearing the unit patch of one of the outfits from
Dr. Lang's research facility. Lang had managed to ram through the council an
authorization for his own security forces, but Edwards had fought the
seconding of pilots to the Robotech scientist. So, this was almost certainly
one of the fliers who had been selected from the lower ranks and trained on
Tirol to fill the cockpits of Lang's personal army.
But what was he doing on SDF-3?
Minmei swayed slowly from side to side, closing one eye in an effort to
focus on him. "C'mom, c'mon; I mean, why're y'doing this?" She still wasn't
sure he wouldn't drag her back to Edwards-maybe to claim some kind of reward
or favor.
She was also waiting for the alarms to go off.
Surely, by now, Edwards had realized that she hadn't simply fled his