"Roberts, John Maddox - Cingulum 03 - The Sword, The Jewel and the Mirror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts John Maddox)

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THE SWORD, THE JEWEL, AND THE MIRROR
"The engineer gave me a shopping list. Nothing exotic. Is there a salvage yard around here?" Jemal nudged him and he looked up to see a man entering the station. He wore the black uniform of the Black Tumans, with the addition of curtainlike plate armor.
"About two kilometers from here. Pretty limited stock, but you might find what you need. Your ship war surplus?"
"Right," Haakon answered. "It's a light cruiser frame."
"I think they've been wrecking a couple of light cruisers, write-offs from the end of the war. As for provisions, you might find enough food to get you to the next decent port, but you won't want to lay in more than that. The grub here isn't what you're used to, I can guarantee it."
The man in the BT uniform pulled off his helmet and dropped it onto the customs table. It was close-fitting, without the spreading neck-and-shoulder guard of the local helmets. He had close-cropped hair and the narrow features of the Bahadur upper classes. "You're from the ship that just arrived." It wasn't a question.
"That's right," Haakon answered. "Eurynome, free trader. I'm Captain Haakon.
"What cargo do you carry?"
"Actually, we aren't unloading anything here. Just stopped toЧ"
"I said what cargo. Answer only what you are asked." True to type, the man was insufferably arrogant.
Haakon fiddled in his belt pouch and came up with a 27
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thin disc. "Here's our manifest. General cargo, nothing very interesting."
The BT took the disc and inserted it in his belt recorder. It popped out within a second and he tossed it onto the table. "Transact your business and be on your way. Things are unsettled here and we have no time to protect transients. Your presence is now registered with the local police authority. Restrict your activities to the port and the town of Masamune. If you are found outside these areas, or more than fifty meters from the road connecting them, you'll be shot on sight." He collected his helmet, jammed it over his head, and left.
"He's just a bundle of charm, isn't he?" asked Jemal.
"How come the BT's are here?" asked Haakon.
The customs man looked quickly about to see if anyone was standing too near. "There's continuous rebellion going on here. Used to be, they'd send regular Bahadur troops and rotate them out every year. The BT's got here a few months ago. Word is, they're here for five years."
"Why such a long tour?" Jemal asked idly.
"You ask me, they're here for punishment. Somebody must have screwed up bad. More than two-thirds of them'll be dead in five years."
"It is so bad?" Soong asked.
"Worse. The locals are always up in arms about something, and even without them there's plenty of other ways to die here."
"I take it you aren't local," Haakon prodded.
"I hope to all the gods not!" the official said
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vehemently. "No, this is a hardship post for System Port Authority. Sixteen inhabited planets in this system, and every one of them a garden spot compared to this one. Two years here with double pay and I get a promotion and the post of my choice at the end of it. Every day I ask myself if it's worth it. I'm short now, though. Fifty-two and a wake-up."
"Perhaps," Soong said, "it would be prudent to learn about the dangers awaiting us. Have you any information modules concerning such things?"
"There's a bus runs every hour into Masamune. It runs a briefing program for newcomers. Keep your armor-cloth buttoned up, the insects here are fierce. And get some hail armor as soon as you get to town, is my advice. And be polite to the natives. They'll kill you for looking cross-eyed at them. There's the bus now. In town you can arrange for transportation to the salvage yard. Hope you make it back alive."
They boarded the busЧan antiquated air-cushion vehicle with an opaqued dome topЧand sat. "We were lucky to encounter such a talkative functionary," Soong said.
"He was jittery," Haakon observed. "Typical short-timer. He wants to get away so bad, time seems to be standing still."
During their trip into town, a running hologram entertained them with the many ways one could die on Chamuka. There were the giant flying insects with buzz-saw noses, the plant that shot twenty-centimeter bolts like a crossbow, the flash floods, the poisonous gas vents
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that might erupt at any time from innocent-looking ground, the extremes of temperature and, of course, the hailstorms. This, they were assured, merely scratched the surface of Chamuka's lethality. Even more entertaining ways to expire were to be found in the hinterlands. There was no mention of the natives, rebellious or otherwise.
The town was a sprawl of incongruously delicate^ looking buildings, with slender beams supporting high-pitched roofs of hard ceramic. The muddy streets were broad and the blocks of buildings were widely separated, apparently as a precaution against the spread of fires. Walkways between buildings had overhead protection. Armored people strolled in the streets, unconcerned at the buildup of black clouds in the near distance.
The bus stopped and settled to the ground in an open square, and the passengers departed into the shelter of one of the covered walkways. When the hailstorm hit they had to cover their ears with their hands against the thundering racket.
"Soong, can you read any of the signs?" Haakon asked when the hail let up.
Soong tried to decipher the extravagant calligraphy, which ran vertically down the front of some buildings, but shook his head. "No. They use many of the old Chinese characters, but they use them to mean different things. From the way they are arranged, I suspect that each character represents a syllable in their language."
By asking bystanders, they were able to make their way to a shop selling protective gear. Like most port
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cities, this one abounded in people able to speak some of the spacer dialects. The shop building consisted of little more than a wooden platform, some support posts of local wood, and a ceramic roof. A few interior spaces were closed off with hanging curtains.
"Most of the men here wear swords, I've noticed," said Jemal, examining a rack of the weapons. He took one down and drew it from its sheath. It roughly resembled the ancient Japanese sword, with a very plain handle and a fiat metal plate for a guard, but the blade was short, about sixty centimeters in length, and very broad, widening somewhat toward the tip. It ended in an abrupt hatchet point. It was made of plain steel but a pearly color along the edge meant some sort of special treatment.
"Looks as much like a machete as a sword," Jemal said.
"Be most careful of the edge," said the proprietor, a roly-poly man whose movements were surprisingly swift and deft. "It is as keen as your powerblade, without the messy sparks and annoying noise. These swords are first sharpened as perfectly as it is possible to sharpen steel, then a second edge of perfectly aligned crystals is grown atop the first edge. You can shave with it after spending the day splitting wood with that edge."
"Why are they carried?" Haakon asked. "I haven't seen more than ten worlds where swords were worn with daily attire. Even on those worlds it was mostly for show."
"These are not show weapons," said the proprietor,
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