"Daniel Keys Moran - A Tale of the Continuing Time 04 - The AI War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moran Daniel Keys)

large enough for the Elite to come through.

The combat suits were bad news. They made his favorite trick, the fadeaway spray, impractical --
even Elite skin had to be somewhat permeable, and a heavy douse of fadeaway would put one
down for several minutes while the Elite immune system dealt with the drug.

But there were other tricks.

Three of the Elite cut away at the airlock while the fourth watched their backs. Gandhi was a pacifist
CityState, in theory, but the Elite did not believe for an instant that it meant that no one in the entire
asteroid would shoot at them; and it certainly did not mean that any SpaceFarers who happened to be
present at the asteroid would not shoot at them -- a member of the Collective probably would, and with
military caliber weapons.

When the fourth Elite saw faces peeking around the edges of corridors, he fired upon them as soon as
they showed Acquired. He killed eleven of the CityStaters in the fifty-three seconds it took his
companions to cut through the airlock, and then followed the other three through the airlock.

On the other side of the corridor floated a holograph, in French, warning the French Elite to go no
further.

Elite Sergeant Philippe Mansion said over the combat band, Officer Quinette, take the point.

An outspeaker boomed forth in French: "BAD NEWS FOR ELITE! COME NO FURTHER! COME
NO FURTHER!" -- and then began repeating.

Elite Officer Janelle Quinette, one of the rare hundreds of female PKF who had ever been inducted into
the Elite, kicked her ankle rockets up to high and moved forward down the stony corridor. Abruptly the
microphones that fed her sound from the outside world went dead: sonics, at a guess. In character, she
thought to herself as she flew toward the end of the long, empty hall, laser gripped in both hands. Trent
would not do anything likely to kill any of the Elite --

Her helmet, where it touched the back of her neck, was unnaturally warm. Janelle Quinette, at thirty-five,
had logged more time in drop, eight years, than all but a few of the men in the PKF; it was one of the
reasons she had made Elite. Her reaction now demonstrated it: in one smooth motion she holstered her
rifle and got her hands up and pointed into her direction of motion, blasted once with her hand rockets to
get her feet around and then kicked in her ankle rockets on emergency boost. Induction field, she
said shortly, as she braked hard, the armored combat suit around her heating up with amazing speed; she
used one more blast of her wrist rockets to stabilize herself and then cracked the seal on her helmet and
ripped it off as she came to a halt and began accelerating backward down the corridor.

She performed the extraordinary feat of unsuiting while her suit was under boost.

Trent flew through the main entryway into his quarters. All of the doors stood uncurled, awaiting his
arrival; they curled shut behind him with a snap as he entered. Through his inskin his Image kept him
apprised, at several abstracts, of the actions it was taking to keep him alive.

In one view Trent watched a pair of PKF Elite prepare to move down the corridor again. One of them
was Janelle Quinette, the other -- Trent accessed his Elite database -- Sergeant Philippe Mansion, an
eleven-year veteran. Beneath their suits they wore PKF gray combat fatigues. Interesting, and mildly