"Pournelle, Jerry - Mercenary (V1.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

There were red lines painted on the concrete floor, and the colonists stayed carefully

inside them. Even the children had learned to cooperate with BuRelock's guards. The
colonists had a sameness about them; shabbily dressed in Welfare Issue clothing sprinkled
with finery cast off by taxpayers and gleaned from Reclamation Stores or by begging or
from a Welfare District Mission.
John Christian Falkenberg knew he didn't look much like a typical colonist. He was
a gangland youth, already at fifteen approaching six feet in height and thin because he hadn't
yet filled out to his latest spurt of growth. No one would take him for a man, no matter how
hard he tried to act like one.
A forelock of sand-colored hair fell across his forehead and threatened to blind him,
and he-automatically brushed it aside with a nervous gesture. His bearing and posture set
him apart from the others, as did his almost comically serious expression. His clothing was
also unusual: it was new, and fit well, and obviously not reclaimed. He wore a brocaded
tunic of real wool and cotton, bright flared trousers, a new belt, and a tooled leather purse at
his left hip. His clothes had cost more than his father could afford, but they did him little
good here. Still he stood straight and tall, his lips set in defiance.
John stalked forward to keep his place in the long line. His bag, regulation space
duffel without tags, lay in front of him and he kicked it forward rather than stoop to pick it
up. He thought it would look undignified to bend over, and his dignity was all he had left.
Ahead of him was a family of five, three screaming children and their apathetic
parents -- or, possibly, he thought, not parents. Citizen families were never very stable.
BuRelock agents often farmed out their quotas, and their superiors were seldom concerned
about the precise identities of those scooped up.
The disorderly crowds moved inexorably toward the end of the room. Each line
terminated at a wire cage containing a plastisteel desk. Each family group moved into a
cage, the doors were closed, and their interviews began.
The bored trustee placement officers hardly listened to their clients, and the colonists
did not know what to say to them. Most knew nothing about Earth's outsystem worlds. A
few had heard that Tanith was hot, FulsonТs World cold, and Sparta a hard place to live,
but free. Some understood that Hadley had a good climate and was under the benign
protection of American Express and the Colonial Office. For those sentenced to
transportation without confinement, knowing that little could make a lot of difference to their
futures; most didn't know and were shipped off to labor-hungry mining and agricultural
worlds, or the hell of Tanith, where their lot would be hard labor, no matter what their
sentences might read.
The fifteen-year-old boy -- he liked to consider himself a man, but he knew many of
his emotions were boyish no matter how hard he tried to control them -- had almost reached
the interview cage. He felt despair.
Once past the interview, he'd be packed into a BuRelock transportation ship. John
turned again toward the gray-uniformed guard standing casually behind the large-mesh
protective screen. УI keep trying to tell you, there's been a mistake! I shouldnТt -У

"Shut up," the guard answered. He motioned threateningly with the bell-shaped
muzzle of his sonic stunner. "It's a mistake for everybody, right? Nobody belongs here. Tell
the interview officer, sonny."
John's lip curled, and he wanted to attack the guard, to make him listen. He fought
to control the rising flush of hatred. "Damn you, I -У
The guard raised the weapon. The Citizen family in front of John huddled together,
shoving forward to get away from this mad kid who could get them all tingled. John