"John Ringo - Council War 3 - Against the Tide" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

the high-frequency pinging of the delphinos dropped off rapidly even in cold water, but the humpbacks
were not merely the loudest whales in the ocean, they had the best hearing. He waited until the sound
began to shift and then surfaced, blasting out the air he had held in his lungs for long minutes and taking in
a deep gulp of cold north Atlantis air. He then dropped back to a hundred meters, turned tail up and
began to let out a deep series of throbs, like deep, giant drumbeats that resounded through the ocean.
***
The mer was lying in mud, his hands interlaced behind his head to keep it up out of the glutinous
black mass. Asfaw didn't like sitting in mud, but the alternative was swimming back and forth and that
got old quick. He thought to himself, as he had at least a hundred times, that he ought to do something
about there being nothing but mud down here. But then he reminded himself that writing memos was a
pain in the tail and probably nothing would be done anyway; support of the mer was a pretty low priority
around here as their quarters proved. So he continued sitting in the mud, lying in the mud and
occasionally playing with the mud through the long watches.
As he was contemplating, again, that he'd much rather be back at Blackbeard Base or even out with
the scouts, he sat up and cocked his head to the side. He listened for a moment then blanched, his fair
skin turning fairer in the dark waters. He quickly swam to the surface and took a breath of air, using it to
blast the water in his lungs out through the gill-slits in his ribcage. There wasn't anyone on the floating
dock so he swam over to the ladder and climbed up it, hand over hand, until he could see over the side
of the dock.
The messenger was sitting on a chair, see, he at least had a chair, his head bowed on his chest. The
moon had set but lantern light was more than enough to see that he was slightly drooling and twitching in
his sleep.
"Robertson!" the mer snapped. "Wake up!"
"Whah?" the messenger said, sitting up and looking around blearily.
"Wake up and get ready to take a message," the mer said.
"Yes, sir," the private replied, turning up the oil lamp on his table and fumbling out writing materials
and instruments.
"When you've delivered the message, go wake up the rest of the messengers; we're going to have a
busy day."
"Yes, sir," the messenger repeated. As the mer dictated, the pen of the messenger trembled and his
face, too, turned stark white in the red lamplight.
***
"As you can see," the young man said, drawing another line on the chalkboard. "Subedei used
indirect methods in each of his campaigns. And in each of his major battles, although often heavily
outnumbered by equally trained forces, he was able to overcome them by destroying their will to fight or
their means."
The instructor was, if anything, younger than most of his students, which were a young crowd. He
was barely twenty, but eyes were cold and old and his hard face was lined with scars, as was the hand
that wielded the chalk. His other hand ended in a complex hook and clamp prosthetic. That was
currently hooked in the belt of his undress uniform, a gray kimonolike tunic with an undershirt of
unbleached cosilk, a heavy cosilk scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked into the tunic, blue pants
with a light blue seam down the trouser-leg and heavy, rough-leather boots. The uniform was somewhat
faded with use and washings and the boots had seen heavy use too. But it was clearly comfortable wear
to the young man, clothes that he had worn for enough days and years to consider them normal wear.
Besides being young, he was also a large man. Very large. The chalk looked like a stubby twig in his
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hand.
"Now," he said, turning to the class that was rapidly trying to repeat his sketches. "Can anyone tell