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

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HART KNELT IN THE SOFT HAY OF AN UPPER balcony, his hands gripping the
slim railing, and he stared through the darkness at the patch of light below.
The shapes of the refugees seemed to melt and run together; they reminded him
of the way maggots looked under the translucent skins of dead fourbirds. Mish
moved through the crowd to Jes and Quilla, and Jason stood near the main
doors, talking, pausing, pointing, walking. Hart tried to watch all four of
them at the same time and trembled, terrified that they would be absorbed
forever into the mass below.
They said it would be different. It was going to be different. He had
expected more Kennerins, more kasirene; people like the people he loved,
aliens like the aliens he had known for all his seven years, who were as
familiar as the shadows in his room, or the heavy-leaved kaedos on the hills.
Not these almost-Kennerins, odd of speech, dirty, evil smelling, the colors of
the dead. A white man, there, with pale hair; a maggot-man holding a slim
silver rod in his hand. Smile, point, kill -- What did that rod do? Jason
carrying a maggot-woman to the straw; she held a lapful of holocubes, which
tumbled out of her dress and scattered on the barn's floor. Jason put her
down, and she scrabbled at the cubes, started crying. Jason picked them up and
piled them around her, and she clutched them with pale hands, arms, fingers.
Damp. Sticky. Slimy. How could he touch her? How could they all be down there,
accepting them, talking to them, feeding them? Hart's hands tightened on the
railing. Let them go, then. Let them be eaten up. They hate me. They made it
all happen and they hate me.
Heavy, unnatural noises boomed amid the quiet of Hart's barn; alien
boots trod his floors and alien bodies curled into his hay. The stench of
unwashed bodies nauseated him. His knuckles whitened against the dark wood of
the railing and he shook violently. These maggot-people would steal his island
as they had stolen his barn; they would fill his planet and cover his meadows,
poison his seas and darken his skies, and come for him, reach their white
hands to him, suffocate him, _touch_ him. _Touch him_. His muscles locked and
he screamed, helpless to stop himself. The loft rocked under his feet.
Then hands gripped his shoulders and shook him, and through his screams
he saw the face of his sister. Her mouth moved silently, words drowned in
noise. He hungered for the warmth and protection of her arms, for the comfort
of her voice, but could not stop the high keening, could not unfreeze his
limbs. She stopped shaking him, bit her lip, and slapped his face, breaking
his hold on the railing and breaking the terror's hold on him. He collapsed
onto her, and she gathered him to her body as he sobbed.
"What's wrong?" she said urgently. "Hart, baby, what's wrong?"
He had no words. He sobbed and shook his head against her shoulder.
"Hart? Are you hurt?"
He pointed a shaky finger downward. She craned her neck to look over
the railing and saw only the crowd of tired, hungry refugees.
"The people, baby? Is that it?"
He nodded, his sobs lessening. Now Quilla would understand, as she had
understood scraped knees and cut fingers and nightmares. She would perform a
magic equivalent to that of antiseptic, bandages, and kisses, and make the
world right again.
Instead, she said, with calm practicality, "It's only people, baby.