"Modesitt, L E - The Parafaith War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

"Did you think about the bolthole?" asked Quentar. "Fine. I go down into that coffin and do what? Wait? Who'd ever come and get me? That's for when you're a basket case."
"Yeah. I feel that way, too. "Quentar shook his head and pointed to the small console in the corner. "After you report to PerCon, you can use the off-watch cubicle and the shower. Let me know where they're sending you."
Trystin stood and trudged across to the console, linking into the system.
"Perimeter Control, Lieutenant Trystin Desoll, calling from East Red Two. Reporting status-"
"Desoll, this is Major Alessandro. Did you encounter any more revs?" "No, ser."
"Can the station be brought on-line quickly?" "I don't know. The upper right corner of the tech center got scorched with an HE round, but the rest seemed all right." "How did they get in?"
"The vehicle-door shield jammed open after Ryla returned from a repair run, and we never got it Fixed before the revs showed up."
"That's been a problem. Do you have any idea how many revs assaulted your station?"
"No, ser. The scanners wouldn't focus on their shielding right. I couldn't see anything either, not until I did a full-frequency scan, and that was only on the fringe, and they still seemed to flicker. . . ."
The questions seemed to go on and on. Trystin propped himself against the wall and kept answering.
Finally, Alessandro concluded, ". . . if we need any more information, I'll get back to you. There will be a tech team and a sweep team going in tomorrow, and they'll send a carrier for you-around zero seven hundred. Later on, we'll send out the rest of the station crew."
Trystin logged off and walked back toward Quentar, slumping back into the hard chair. "And?" asked Quentar.
"They're sending a tech team out tomorrow, along with a sweep squad. They'll pick me up." "Lucky you." Quentar paused. "No one else was there?" Trystin shook his head. "The attack the other day . . . well, the revs bent a door and shield frame enough that the station stunk. So Voren and the techs bailed out. Gerfel had leave, and her replacement wasn't due until the late shuttle." "Makes you wonder."
"Yeah," Trystin snapped. "How did they manage to locate the one under-force station on the entire perimeter- from orbit yet-and the only one with bad shields-and still get wiped out?" "A lot of bodies?"
"What's a lot? I counted maybe a squad, but I didn't go looking. They're all still there."
"They're good for fertilizer, anyway. Except we've got to transport them." Quentar laughed. "You know the one thing I like about this job?" "What?" asked Trystin tiredly.
"Killing revs. It'd be better if I could be a pilot. That way I could scorch a bunch, but the gattlings do a real good job. You know," Quentar said, his voice dropping to a more conversational level, "the revs aren't really human. They 're part alien." "I hadn't heard that."
"Oh . . . the policy types on Perdya hushed that up. They said it makes people too excitable. How else do you explain it? Would you run right at a gattling, Trystin? Would anyone human? How else can you explain it?"
"Their faith," suggested Trystin. "If they die in a holy war or whatever it is, they go to paradise."
"No real human could swallow that. No, they're aliens. . They just look human." Quentar laughed again. "Wish I were a pilot. Then I could scorch a whole lot of them. Keep 'em from killing real people." His eyes half glazed at a message or some line input, and he added in a disinterested tone, his consciousness half elsewhere, "You need some rest."
"Yeah. " Trystin nodded and walked down to the shower, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. A shower and sleep, those were what he really wanted-and not to think about alien-acting revs. Or Quentar's wanting to kill anything that moved. Just a shower and sleep.
6
In the gray light before dawn, the troop carrier was even grayer than the morning, the thermoshield
plastic that covered the composite armor blending into the western horizon. The beetle-shaped carrier bore twin forward-slanted antennae composed of Sasaki cannon. On each side of the bulge that held the fully automated guns was a single rapid-launch rocket tube. Under the guns were the cockpit portals-dark armaglass irises that looked like blind eyes. Trystin watched as the carrier slowed outside the station, putting its fans on bypass and settling down. He closed his helmet. The suit still smelled like a weight room, despite his quick efforts to clean it out that morning before redonning it. He stepped through the outer portal from East Red Two, walking quickly toward the armored carrier, aware that Natsugi had dropped the shields behind him as soon as he was clear. With each step, his boots sank ankle-deep in the powdery soil.
The carrier's armored side door swung down as he crossed the reddish ground that continued to vibrate under even the idling of the carrier's engines. As he put his foot on the textured plates that backed the door and served as a ramp, his implant linked with the carrier's order circuit. "Lieutenant Desoll?" "Stet."
"Major Juraki. Settle in for the ride. Lieutenant. I'd like to have you act as an observer once we're inbound to your station."
A trooper in a full-armor suit gestured toward a seat opposite the door.
"I'd be happy to." As Trystin answered the carrier commander, he took the vacant seat and strapped in, then slipped the seat's tube into his suit's oxygen plug. "Appreciate the ride." "Our pleasure."
The armored door eased up into place; the fans hummed; and the carrier swept back westward along the shuttle trail, leaving a trail of fine red dust. The air-cushion shuttle didn't have any problems sinking into the soil, but it did leave a lot of dust. It could only carry about a third of its rated capacity, given the thinner Maran atmosphere, and the abrasion on the fans was murder.
Trystin glanced up at the monitor, which showed the shuttle track in front of the carrier, and then closed his eyes. He hadn't slept that well, not with dreams of exploding revs, and consoles and systems that didn't work.. He'd even dreamed of revs turning into scaly aliens. He snorted. Quentar and his alien Fixation-the revs didn't have to be aliens, not physical ones. Their blind faith made them alien enough. He pursed his lips. Quentar's cheerful admission of living to kill revs bothered him, but he couldn't say why he felt that Quentar was carrying it too far. After all, the revs had proved they were certainly out to kill him. He shook his head, recalling the fanaticism of the rev officer.
When he shifted his weight on the hard seat, his hip throbbed. It was still sore and promised to turn vivid shades of blue and yellow.
The carrier was far smoother than the scooter had been, and Trystin slipped into a doze, ignoring the faint hissing of the oxygen forced into his suit and the occasional clicks of the CO2 cartridge system. "Approaching East Red Three . . ." Trystin sat up with a jolt and blinked. Had he slept that long? He wanted to rub his eyes, but the involuntary motion brought his gauntlet against his helmet. He yawned and straightened in the seat.
The sweep trooper beside Trystin thumped his companion on the shoulder and pointed at the single screen in the troop area, focused on East Red Three.
The pinkish light of early morning illuminated black holes in at least a dozen spots in the station's composite armor on the south side. The maintenance entry was a jagged dark cutout. Chunks of armor lay at the foot of the station walls and even meters away. Scattered between the fragments of armor were the dark Figures of dead revs.
Trystin tried to count the bodies, but lost track at over a dozen.
"Desoll?" buzzed through his implant. "How does it look?"
"Looks the same as when I left. The shielding on the revvie suits seems to have worn off, though. I didn't recall that many bodies." "Maybe we'll see how dead they are." "Don't aim at a nearby body. Some are booby-trapped with organic HE." "Organic HE? You got to be kidding." "I wish I were. Take my word or check with RESCOM."
Trystin could feel the slightest jerk as the Sasakis let go. A huge gout of flame erupted from a dead figure, and chunks of metal-weapons, respirator paks-clunked against the carrier's plates.
"See what you mean." Major Juraki's voice was dry through the implant. "We'll do a turn around the station- but all sensors indicate it's dead."
While the carrier slowed, it completed a full circle of the station before coming to a halt opposite the south side. Most of the damage had been there-where the entry portals were. The rest was on the east side, near the sensor conduits, at the level of the rocket launch and gattling portals, and around the armaglass port of the control center on the second level. The station's armor on the north and west sides was untouched. So were the reclamation towers. The shields still covered the power turbine fans.
Trystin frowned. The damage indicated that the revvie attack had been directed at all the defense installations. But that made a sort of sense, since once the defense systems were knocked out, nothing could stop the revs from destroying the rest of the station. "Sweep team, stand by for reoccupation." "Lieutenant Desoll"-that came through on the implant level-"stand back and let them sweep the place. We'll need you to identify what happened. After they're clear, come on up through the middle door."
The carrier eased to a halt and a full squad of the armored troops swept down the ramp and into the station. They moved quickly, if not on reflex boost.
When the armored door swung up again, Trystin unplugged from the oxygen line, going back to his suit supply, and stepped through the narrow hatch and climbed the three steps to the control deck.
The major, sitting in the left seat, motioned to the jump seat that folded down between his seat and the gunner's console. The gunner, wearing black armor, remained focused on his consoles. Trystin pulled down the jump seat and plugged into the auxiliary air jack. "So far, so good." The major's voice was detached sounding through the implant, as if his attention were elsewhere. "Just dead revs."
"My tech is wrapped up in sheeting on the tech table," Trystin added. "It was all I could do." "I'll pass that along."
Trystin waited, shifting his eyes between the screens and the armaglass portals. Both showed the same scene-flattened soil, fragments of composite armor, and the battered station walls. Beyond the station, he could glimpse the reclamation towers and the badlands. Two troopers were carting rev bodies to the carrier's rear cargo bay and stacking them. The revvie weapons went into the front bay.
"Station's clean. Lieutenant," announced the major. "Tech team's coming in, and they should have you back on-line before long." "I hope so."
"Until the next attack. Damned revs. Wish we could just clean them out. Galaxy'd be a better place. But no . . . politicians in Cambria say that a big war would do us all in. This isn't? Every year, they send more troids, and every year the messes are worse." The major's hand pointed toward the station. "They're after real estate. What they all need is to buy the farm. You notice how they leave the reclamation stuff alone?" "I'd noticed."
"They want us to do the hard work, and then, when the planet's set, they'll be ready to take it over. Hell . . . we've done enough here that without any more work, the air'll be breathable in another generation or so. Damned skimmers."
The implant circuit went dead, and Trystin waited. "Tech shuttles are on your track. Only be a few minutes."