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

began dropping with Spasm poisoning. A single message, coded
mysteriously into the Garrison Commander's computer, claimed
responsibility in the name of the Shamba Freedom ForcesтАФquickly
shortened to Shamba Scum by the troops-of-the-line.
 Khadaji grinned as he ran along the thin path through the forest. That had
been a nice touch, he'd thought, naming the "Freedom Forces" after Lord
Thomas Reserve Shamba, the twenty-second century war hero. It was a joke
only Khadaji could appreciate, though. It came from Sham-ba's answer to a
surrender call by Confed forces who outnumbered him fifty-to-one at the
Battle of Mwanamamke in the Bibi Arusi System:
To the Commander, Confederation Jumptroopers:
Sir:
Fuck you.
We stand until the last man falls.
When the first man fell in the current insurgency, it would be the last man.
Khadaji slowed to a walk when he was a kilometer from the patrol line. He
checked his confounder, to make sure it was operating, bent and stretched
his legs and back, and took several deep breaths. There were three men on
the line in this sector, virgins as near as he could tell. He could have taken
them on the way out, but that might have made it tough to get back into the
city. The Confed military mind was rigid and not particularly bright, but
neither was it completely stupid. The replacements for these three wouldn't
be fresh meat, they'd be vets, more interested in staying ambulatory than
proving how well they'd' absorbed their training.
The first soldier was so easy it made Khadaji sad. He walked to within five
meters without being noticed. The boyтАФhe could have been no older than
twenty-two or threeтАФstood in the shade of a small fir tree. It was not
particularly warm, but he wore class two body gear, and it didn't take much
to heat up the inside of that to sweatpoint. The boy had shifted his goggles
up and his tight hood back, exposing his face and head to the cooler air. If
Khadaji had been an uprank, the boy would have been in trouble.
"Excuse me, which way is Hartman Street?"
The boy turned, surprised. He started to swing the Parker up, but stopped.
What he saw was a tall man in orthoskins, palms supinated, looking
harmless.
"Jeet, dork, don't slip up on a man like that!" He seemed to relax a little,
seeing that Khadaji was unarmed and smiling.
The Shamba Scum shrugged, raised his left hand slightly, and stiffened his
index finger. "Sorry," he said.
The little dart hit the boy high on the forehead and snapped his face
upward; the Spasm hit him on the way down and he was in the lock before
he touched the ground. The strongest muscles determined the shape of the
knot; this one had strong quads and tricepsтАФhis arms and legs stuck out.
Khadaji shook his head. There was no joy in this. The boy would be able to
tell all about the man who shot himтАФ in six months, if he were lucky.
Meanwhile, he would spend an uncomfortable time thinking about his
actions on this day. Spasm froze the muscles but neither the memory nor the
mind which drove it. He wouldn't be able to call out, but he would
remember how stupid he had been. A harsh punishment for a boy, but it was
necessary. All of it was necessary, for reasons this soldier couldn't begin to