"Richard Morgan - Broken Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morgan Richard)

and we should be listening to them.
 PART I
INJURED PARTIES
War is like any other bad relationship. Of course you want out,
but at what price? And perhaps more importantly, once you get
out, will you be any better off?

QUELLCRIST FALCONER
Campaign Diaries
 CHA PTE R ONE




I first met Jan Schneider in a Protectorate orbital hospital three hundred kilometres above the
ragged clouds of Sanction IV and in a lot of pain. Technically there wasn't supposed to be a
Protectorate presence anywhere in the Sanction system тАФ what was left of planetary
government was insisting loudly from its bunkers that this was an internal matter, and local
corporate interests had tacitly agreed to sign along that particular dotted line for the time
being.
Accordingly, the Protectorate vessels that had been hanging around the system since
Joshua Kemp raised his revolutionary standard in Indigo City had had their recognition codes
altered, in effect being bought out on long-term lease by various of the corporations involved,
and then reloaned to the embattled government as part of the тАФ tax deductible тАФ local
development fund. Those that were not pulled out of the sky by Kemp's unexpectedly
efficient second-hand marauder bombs would be sold back to the Protectorate, lease
unexpired, and any net losses once again written off to tax. Clean hands all round. In the
meantime, any senior personnel injured fighting against Kemp's forces got shuttled out of
harm's way, and this had been my major consideration when choosing sides. It had the look
of a messy war.
The shuttle offloaded us directly onto the hospital's hangar deck, using a device not unlike
a massive ammunition feed belt to dump the dozens of capsule stretchers with what felt like
unceremonious haste. I could hear the shrill whine of the ship's engines still dying away as
we rattled and clanked our way out over the wing and down onto the deck, and when they
cracked open my capsule the air in the hangar burnt my lungs with the chill of recently
evacuated hard space. An instant layer of ice crystals formed on everything, including my
face.
'You!' It was a woman's voice, harsh with stress. 'Are you in pain?'
I blinked some of the ice out of my eyes and looked down at my blood-caked battledress.
'Take a wild guess,' I croaked.
'Medic! Endorphin boost and GP anti-viral here.' She bent over me again and I felt gloved
fingers touch my head at the same time as the cold stab of the hypospray into my neck. The
pain ebbed drastically. 'Are you from the Evenfall front?'
'No,' I managed weakly. 'Northern Rim assault. Why, what happened at Evenfall?'
'Some fucking terminal buttonhead just called in a tactical nuclear strike.' There was a cold
rage chained in the doctor's voice. Her hands moved down my body, assessing damage. 'No
radiation trauma, then. What about chemicals?'
I tilted my head fractionally at my lapel. 'Exposure meter. Should tell you. That.'
'It's gone,' she snapped. 'Along with most of that shoulder.'
'Oh.' I mustered words. 'Think I'm clean. Can't you do a cell scan?'