"Robert Reed - Hatch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

simple homes and little businesses clinging to the inside surface of the sleeping
nozzle. But true raiders un-derstood that the most intriguing, soul-soaring view was
found when you stood where Peregrine was standing now: perched some five
thousand kilo-meters above the hull, staring down at the PolypondтАФa magnificent,
ever-changing alien body that stretched past the neighboring nozzles, reaching the far
horizon and beyond, submerging both faces of a magnificent starship that itself was
larger than worlds.

The Polypond had arrived thousands of years ago, descending as a violent
rain of comet-sized bodies, scalding vapor, and sentient, hate-filled mud. The alien
had wanted to destroy the Great Ship, and perhaps even today it dreamed of nothing
less. But most of the cityтАЩs inhabitants believed the war was over now, and in one
fashion or another, the Ship had won. Some were sure the alien had surrendered
unconditionally. Others believed that the PolypondтАЩs single mind had collapsed,
leaving a multitude of factions end-lessly fighting with one another. Both tales
explained quite a lot, including the monsterтАЩs indifference to a few million refugees
living just beyond its boundaries. But the most compelling ideaтАФthe notion that
always capti-vated PeregrineтАФwas that human beings had not only won the war, but
killed their foe too. Its central mind was destroyed, all self-control had been
vanquished, and what the young man saw from his diamond blister was noth-ing
more, or less, than a great corpse in the throes of ferocious, creative rot.

Whatever the truth, the Polypond was a spectacle, and no raider under-stood
it better than Peregrine did.

Frigid wisps of atomic oxygen and nitrogen marked the aliens upper reaches,
with dust and buckyballs and aerogel trash wandering free. That high atmosphere
reached halfway to the hull, and it ended with a sequence of transparent
skinsтАФmonomolecular sheets, mostly, plus a few energetic demon-doors laid out
flat. Retaining gas and heat was their apparent pur-pose, and when those skins were
pierced, what lay below could feel the prick, and on occasion, react instantly.

Beneath the skins was a thick wet atmosphere, not just warm but hotтАФa fierce
blazing wealth of changeable gases and smart dusts, floating clouds and rooted
clouds, plus features that refused description by any language. And drenching that
realm was a wealth of light. The glare wasnтАЩt constant or evenly distributed. What
passed for day came as splashes and winding rivers, and the color of the light as
well as its intensity and duration would vary. After spending most of his brief life
watching the purples and crimsons, emeralds and golds, plus a wealth of blues that
stretched from the brilliant to the soothing, Peregrine had realized that each color and
its intricate shape held meaning.

тАЬA common belief,тАЭ Hawking had told him. тАЬBut your translator AIs cannot
find any message, or even the taste of genuine language.тАЭ

тАЬExcept I wasnтАЩt thinking language,тАЭ Peregrine countered. тАЬNot at all.тАЭ

His friend wanted more of an answer, signaling his desires with silence and
circular gestures from his most delicate arms.