"Marta Randall - Journey" - читать интересную книгу автора (Randall Marta)

In the warmth after lovemaking, Mish's unease returned. She collected
their scattered clothing and pulled it around them, and Jason settled his head
on her breast and sighed. His eyes closed, but before she could collect her
thoughts into rationality, he moved still closer and touched her cheek with
his fingers.
"I couldn't leave them," he murmured. "They were in a camp, near the
port, so many of them, and bodies thrown outside the fence like garbage. We
had to fight our way out. I thought the Council would be glad to let me take
them, but ... Captain Hetch let them all on; he didn't turn anyone back. Oh,
Mish, there were so many bodies on NewHome."
His voice carried pain and fatigue. She hugged him. "It's all right,
Jase. They're safe now."
"I don't even know who they are. I just grabbed people, behind me,
running, grabbing people, pushing, and people falling down in the snow, sick
or killed or old, I tried, Mish, but there were so many bodies." He shivered
against her.
"Don't they know about their primary?"
"Maybe. They're all crazy there. They don't care. Trying to make a
killing before the killing." He laughed. "Too busy persecuting people, killing
people until their sun kills them. Soon, Hetch said. Maybe not soon enough.
Their souls are rotted." Jason put his hand over his eyes, and Mish kissed his
fingers. "So many bodies, Mish. So many bodies, and so much snow."
He fell asleep, curled as close to her as possible. She held him and
listened to the remote noises from the barn. Two crescent moons floated
overhead, and behind them the innumerable stars of The Spiral glowed against a
backdrop of black velvet. She wondered what the stars looked like from
NewHome, seen through the cold air of a winter camp. So many bodies on
NewHome: dark, like hers; light, like Tabor Grif. Old men. Children. What
Hetch had told her of the purges made no sense -- politics, parties, religious
convictions, philosophies. The sun moving toward nova and the climate of
NewHome entering chaos -- those were the real villains. Five years of drought
and three of famine, and if the government of NewHome had any sense, they
would have evacuated in the third year, when the primary shift became certain.
But there was no vengeance to be had on a star, on an atmosphere, on
meteorological conditions, on blight. And no profit, either. Scapegoats were
needed, instant symbols of The Enemy, symbols which could be broken and killed
-- unlike the long dryness, unlike the dying sun. Symbols which could be
looted, could be sacked. Old women. Children. Snow. The National Confederation
of Great Barrier reaching across boundaries to smite the foe. No wonder the
Council had not wanted Jason to take the people. The Council wanted revenge,
and there is no satisfaction in revenge enacted on absent parties.
A small, six-legged lizard ran up Mish's arm, stopped, chattered at
her, and sprang into the grass. One moon slipped below the horizon, and the
other sat directly overhead, so that the stars of The Spiral seemed to radiate
from it. Mish turned her head, nestling her cheek in Jason's hair, and he
moved in her arms. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow they could talk about Gren,
and Laur, and the food, and they would make plans to deal with so many people,
so many needs, so much uncertainty. Tomorrow. She relaxed and tried to push
the worry from her mind, but it pursued her into sleep and colored her fitful
dreams.