"R. Garcia Y Robertson - Oxygen Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

gave a jaunty wave, and set out toward the bunker, his tiny bug scurrying through the low foliage behind
him. Passing the smashed Bug-mobile, Derek did a swift medi-check, deciding that the two Greenies in
the burned-out turret were beyond help.

("Stop," commanded a gruff voice on his com-link.)

He stopped, sucking oxygen, four paces beyond the smashed Bug, staring at the Gekko ghost town.
"Anything you say."

("Are you human?" asked the voice from the bunker.)

"Hope so." Some folks set a high bar for humanity. "Want to see my chromosomes?"

("Are you Peace Corps?" asked the voice.)

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Derek wished he was, since then he would be peace-bonded,
sacrosanct, and wired for lie-detection. "Sorry, just another civilian."

("Then what are you doing here?")

Good question. What was he doing in a nameless ruined city, on a chamel-house planet with
unbreathable air, where angry folks aimed heavy weapons at him? Feeling like a deranged tourist, he told
the voice, "Talking to you."

("Why?" the voice sounded more surprised than suspicious.)

No mystery there. "They figured you would shoot a Greenie."

(That got a good laugh from the bunker. "No shit.")

"Rank favoritism," Derek admitted, taking another whiff of oxygen. "I got the job just for being human, in
clear violation of the Charter of Universal Rights."

(That drew another chuckle. "Come on in then. Can't shoot you just for being human.")

Not yet anyway. As Derek walked toward the concealed bunker, his bug ran up the back of his boot
and tucked itself into the boot top. Augmented vision picked out the recessed pressure-sealed gun ports,
cleverly concealed and shieldedтАФbut he did not see the camouflaged bunker door until it opened before
him, revealing a gas-tight airlock. Stepping gingerly through the recessed door, he waited while the lock
cycled, then entered the damp, dark bunker, which had several inches of water on the floor. Blast shields
flanked the door, and gunners lay prone in niches on either side of him, peering into their gun sights. Air
inside the bunker was Earth-normal, and Derek took deep grateful breaths. Not all of the planet was as
bad as the highlands outsideтАФbut damn near. ("Stay by the door," warned the voice.)

Derek stayed, aiming not to antagonize. New to diplomacy, Derek still guessed that the voice would take
time to materializeтАФnot to seem overeager. Even trapped in a tiny bunker on a hostile planet, any
sensible negotiator pretended to have something to do. Taking his own advice, Derek turned to the
nearest gunner, a young athletic, brown-haired woman in a Settler militia uniform, staring into the sights of
an assault-cannon, and asked her in his friendliest diplomatic voice, "Where are you from?"
"Right here," she replied, without taking her head out of the sights.