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

The four soldiers were knotted into odd angles amid the ferns and spider
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.