"Ringo,.John.-.Posleen.05.-.Cally's.War.-.Cochrane,.Julie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

"Don't you guys do anything else?" She donned the jeans mechanically, shaking her head.
"I only see her every few months, so the answer is 'no.' "
The fourth member of the team surveyed the room for threats in a textbook maneuver before walking over to the nearest body and nudging it with a foot.
"Is that really him?" he asked.
"I dunno." Cally shrugged. "Toss me a sampler." She caught the probe deftly and knelt beside the body, pressing the needle into his temple on the more-or-less intact side. She looked at the readout and nodded. "Brain DNA never lies. It's him."
"Cleanup on aisle one," Tommy quipped, moving aside as several silent figures in white moved past him and began meticulously sanitizing the scene. He pulled off the black jacket and the white undershirt underneath, offering it to her. His eyes flickered to where she stood, lingering on the blood dripping into the white shag carpet. "You okay?"
"Pain is weakness exiting the body." She took the shirt and pulled it over her head. "Nothing a trip to the slab won't cure.
"Can you get the squealer from his car? Passenger seat, by the door," she asked Tommy, waiting while the cleaning crew moved the first body out the door and following them out. "Thanks. See you in the van."
"Post op review on this one's going to be . . . interesting." He pulled his jacket back on and followed her out.
* * *
O'Neal noticed the team member standing, almost frozen, looking at the splattered brain matter and fluids where Worth's body had been.
"You got a problem, Jay?" He considerately spat onto the second body instead of the floor so as not to make more work for the cleaners.
"She literally blew his brains out." He shook his head. "I don't know how she did the other guy, after letting them do God knows what to her, and she shows less reaction than most people would over a hangnail."
The older man held up his hand to stop the cleaners from picking up the other body. He examined it briefly, noting the discoloration at the jaw line, and popped a brain sample in a storage cube.
"Looks like a fairly clean impact to one of the sweet spots. Can't tell if it was a kick or a strike." Mike O'Neal, Sr. waved the cleaners back over and walked across the room to pick up the discarded high-heeled shoes and purse. "Cally is creative," he said. "Creatively violent."
"Too bad we couldn't have been in place beforehand." The younger agent shook his head, still looking at the mess, "but when you've got a guy who's weaseled out of three hits already just by burning the surveillance . . . It . . . couldn't be helped."
"Okay, let's see what we've got," O'Neal frowned, searching the room briefly for electronics, and handed a reader and a few cubes to the Cyberpunk. "Your domain, Jay. Probably nothing useful, but you never know." He walked back out to the hallway and headed for the stairs, leaving the other man to follow. Doesn't matter how long it's been, climbing stairs without creaking never seems to lose its thrill.
"She's gonna be pissed," Tommy said, following him down the stairs.
"It's okay," Papa O'Neal replied. "I know her weaknesses."
* * *
Cally walked into the blessedly cool dry air of her apartment and stopped, shaking her head; every square inch of the place was covered in either flowers or boxes of chocolate. There were irises and roses and mums and daisies and . . . stuff she couldn't put a name to. She kicked off her heels and walked over to one of the chocolate assortments, grunting at the label. Make that "very expensive" chocolates.
"I cannot be bribed, I cannot be broken," she muttered, pulling one of the chocolates out and crunching on it. "Usually." Her eyes narrowed and she rolled the chocolate around in her mouth, frowning at the flowers. Then she took another bite and frowned again. "Mostly."
She walked across the room, munching chocolate and wriggling her feet in the carpet for a moment, relishing the feeling of unbroken toes, then padded into the kitchen and poured herself a margarita from the dispenser in the fridge. On her way back to the bedroom she popped another chocolate in her mouth, grimacing at the taste of raspberry, stopped at the vidscreen, selected a cube, and dialed it to Tori Amos on audio.
"Three cheers for music to sleep to," she muttered to herself.
In her room, the freshly cleaned evening bag went in the top drawer of one dresser, with a dozen or so others. The wallet, less the cash, went in a thumbprint-locked and trapped drawer at the bottom, with a few dozen others. Sarah Johnson from Chicago hadn't been burnedЧwell, the identity hadn't, anywayЧand might be useful again.
The new T-shirt and very well-cleaned jeans went on hangers in the closet. The underwear, also new, went into the laundry hamper. She walked over to the triple full-length mirrors and looked at herself, front and back. No scars, no signs. But there never are. She leaned forward and examined eyes that were again her own cornflower blue. She bared her teeth and looked at them from all anglesЧperfect, as usual. Not the slightest sign that anything had been damaged.
She walked into the bathroom and set the glass next to the sink, grabbed a clean washcloth from the linen closet, padded back to her bed and set it down on the night table.
Hopefully this one was good for a couple of days of downtime, at least.
She used the bedside touch pad to bring the volume down to a soft background level, and set it to shuffle through the night. Another touch of the pad turned on active countermeasures. Rolling over and clutching her pillow in a way that was oddly like a child with a stuffed animal, she drifted off to sleep.
Tibet. Before the war her height would have marked her in a crowd. Postwar, with Americans everywhere there were still humans, she was unremarkable with mouse-brown cropped hair and a red parka. And now in the house, in a darkened bedroom. The former Party official had sped up the initial Posleen conquest by two weeks, and won himself twenty years of borrowed time. One of his children squealed at the TV in another room. The garrote made no noise at all.
Ireland. An American official on vacation. Tourism never died, it seemed. No witnesses, but he's all in black, a player? His neck cracks so easily, and he rolls as he falls, and it's white it wasn't supposed to be white what why was he here? God, no. No.
The light is red and it smells of incense and books. He's puttering around the sanctuary. A slow day. Father will you hear my confession? There, yes, through the door. What? Outside. Snow falling. The doors locked. Can't get in. Always the same. Can't get back in.
Florida. Swimming with dolphins. Mom's with me. She's proud of me. And the water's cool, and the sun hot. Silly Herman. There'll be key lime pie tonight, and a hug from Dad at bedtime.
She woke with a smile on her face and absently flipped the countermeasures off, reaching for the washcloth to dry her face. In thirty years I haven't woken alone without my face soaking wet. But I sleep like a baby, thank God. I love living in a beach town. She sat up and padded over to the dresser, thumbing the bottom drawer open. "So, who do I want to be today? Not Sarah. Let's see, local, fun, not a brain but not a ne'er do well . . . Pamela. She'll do. Tan, perfect nails. A manicure, pedicure, an afternoon of serious shopping, then an evening out." She looked at her reflection in the mirror. "Just what the doctor ordered, Pamela."
She set the hot pink leather wallet on the dresser and closed the drawer, grabbing a miniscule bra and panties in matching silver-gray lace. She showered, and washed her hair, adding the tiniest hint of dark at the roots and such, Pamela not being a natural blonde. She pulled out a bottle of gray lotion and applied it carefully, rinsing and checking the result. As always, no streaking, no fading, no patches, and absolutely no tan lines.
She went back to her closet and stood for a minute, finding the role. "Pamela. Smart, casual. Likes pinks, grays." She put a pink v-necked blouse, a pair of gray pedal pushers, and a burlap beach bag on the bed, and took a pair of brown strappy flats out of one of the cubbyholes built into the closet wall. "Watch? Yeah, brown-strapped analog." She added them to the beach bag.
After she was dressed, she went looking for breakfast. Pamela meant grapefruit, but first she frowned over Sarah's shoes on the living-room floor and went to put them in their proper place.
After breakfast, she drove to the mall. There was only the one in New Charleston so far, but it was always crowded. Ex-urbies adjusting to surface life tended to find it comfortingly reminiscent of home, and even teenage Charleston natives appreciated the air conditioning. Low Country Nails and Spa was on the lower level near one end, and she walked in with a smile ready, fastening on a curly-haired brunette who was puttering behind the counter.
"Jeannie?" she said.
"Pamela!" The other girl greeted her with a sunny smile, "Where have you been hiding, girl, it's been weeks!"
"Visiting my mom and sister in the Cairo Urb, and boy, am I glad to see the light of day again! Got time for a bunch? I need my hands and feet done and I would just die for one of your cucumber facials."
"How on earth did you keep that tan in an Urb?" The other girl came out from behind the counter and gently ushered her back to a seat at a small table set with the tools of her trade. "You must have been using a sun bed every other day."
"Just about that. Would that watermelon pink go with my skin, or should I go with more of a rose today?"
"Hmm. Let's see . . ." She held a couple of bottles of nail polish up against Cally's hands. "I think you can carry off the watermelon. In a bit of a playful mood?"
"In a mood for some serious fun." Cally grinned mischievously. "The Urb was like being buried alive."
"They always are." Jeannie tsked softly. "Girlfriend, you are under way too much stress, and you're not eating right." She held up one of Cally's fingers where she'd just trimmed a cuticle. "Look at these ridges. But I'm not too surprised. Family can be the worst for stress, and they still don't get very good food underground. Not like you can get out here."
"That's for sure. Urb cafeterias do not serve she-crab stew."
"Seafood's all right, but you've got to eat your fresh veggies or you'll be old before your time. And drink lots of water. Give me a minute." She stepped into the back and came out with a pair of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. "Here. Distilled and remineralized. Best water this side of the Blue Ridge."
Seven hours later Cally put away two new outfits and a pair of shoes, did her hair, added a couple of strands of freshwater pearls, and went back out for pub grub, some decent music, and whatever fun she could find tonight. One good thing about a beach town. Even after the Postie war, there's always something. Pappas Street down near El Cid is always good for some fun.
Oddly enough, the Citadel had suffered little actual damage in the war. Charleston had been thoroughly evacuated, so there had been no food, from the Posleen view. Many historic buildings had been left completely intact, along with the Battery, and the centuries old military school. Nobody knew quite what the Posties had seen in the collection of white, crenellated buildingsЧonly that the campus had suffered a very little careful looting and had been recaptured virtually intact. It had recently celebrated the thirty-fifth anniversary of its reopening as a university and training academy for future Fleet Strike officers. While graduation did not guarantee a commission in the postwar world, it opened vast fields of opportunity and acceptance was highly coveted by young men as a ticket out of the constrained life of the Urbs.