"Steve Perry - Matador 01 - The Man Who Never Missed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

plants, voluntary muscles clenched in the frozen lock which gave the
ion/molecular/chemical flechette of the spetsdod its name: Spasm. They
wouldn't die, but it would take six months of treatment to bring them back to
normal. Six months of extensive physical and psychotherapy for each victim
of the spetsdod's sting, expensive, time-consuming, draining. Spetsdods were
good weapons for guerrillasтАФa dead man cost the enemy little, but a
Spasmed soldier was a lot of work; with proper treatment, they never died
and they did cost.
Khadaji turned to leave. One of the quad might have triggered his com
and, if so, a flier would already be on its way. As he started to move, he
glanced back at the soldiers. One of them had a stain on his leg. It was hard
to see because of the shiftsuit, which matched the color of the ground on
which the downed man lay, but it looked like blood.
He moved closer. Yes. Apparently the point's desperation blast had
wounded one of his own. Damn!
Khadaji hurried to the man. No, correction, it was a woman, not that it
mattered. She was hit, there was a crater the size of his fist in her thigh and
she would bleed to death in a few minutes.
 For a moment, Khadaji thought about it. He hadn't killed any of them, so
far, and this one wouldn't be on his karma, he hadn't shot her. A flier might
be coming.
He shook his head. No. He had to take the long view.
He found her medical kit and jerked it from her belt. He opened the plastic
case and found the pressure patch. Triggering the unit, he slapped it over the
pumping hole in her leg. The patch whined and sealed around the edges.
Inside, the pressure went up as the rudimentary brain of the medical sealer
clamped arteries and veins and shuttled the flow of blood. If a flier was
coming, she'd be all right. Once he got away from the woods, he would call
and report the downed quad anyway, so there was no real danger. There
were no predators on Greaves and the most dangerous thing which could
happen to the quad was that they might get rained on.
Khadaji rose from his crouch and looked at the quad a final time before he
loped off into the woods. He managed a grin against the drop of adrenaline
which left him feeling drained and tired. The Shamba Scum had struck
againтАФ according to the official dispatches, their number was now estimated
at between six and eight hundred. His smile increased. If the quad he'd just
downed had been faster, the Shamba Scum would have been eliminatedтАФall
of them. For Emile Antoon Khadaji was the resistance on Greaves, all by
himself.
It was six klicks to his next station. He jogged the whole way, alert for any
sounds of more troops or fliers. It was quiet. The earthy smell of the
mushrooms and molds was heavyтАФbrought out by the rain last nightтАФand
the ground was squishy underfoot.
This part of it was hard, too. Aside from the means, the logistics were
becoming more difficult all the time. In the early days, it had been easy. The
Confed's machine came to rest on Greaves as it had a dozen other peaceful
worlds almost without incident. There were no armies on the world, no
underground brewing among the agios and craftspeople who made up most
of the planet's population. Oh, there had been a few students handing out
agitprop, but nothing of any consequenceтАФuntil ten or twenty troops a day