"Mary Rosenblum - Jumpers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenblum Mary)

He did, and they swung outward into space, flying heavily and awkwardly, but flying.

They tarzanned through the canopy. He clung to her line with one hand, clutched her hard, lithe body to
his with the other, aware of the combined beat of their hearts, the heat of her flesh, the rush of the thick,
humid air against his face. She steered and he pushed off. Didn't look down. Tried not to imagine what he
would see if he looked down there. They landed on limbs, bark and bits of vine showering them,
scratching his face, leaped again, and again. His arms ached, his shoulders burned like fire, but still they
leaped, swung, scrambled for balance on a new perch. He was too tired to be afraid any longer; the sight
of the collection tubes and mains so many meters below had no meaning anymore. When he lost his grip
and fell, he would feel no fear at all.

Another escape, he thought numbly. More permanent, maybe, than that of the jumpers.

Then she landed them on a big limb, thicker than most. It jutted into daylight, sun, empty space.

End of the rainforest, end of the Plantation. Beyond the trees lay the sere, ocher-colored savaged earth
of the soil that the Plantation had no use for. You couldn't even see the hoses that carried the collected
harvest from the trees to the processing and packaging plant. They were buried underground to protect
them from UV and sabotage. Ragged weeds sprouted from sterilized reddish soil, struggling for
existence. A bright steel and ceramic pumping station hulked in the center of the clear space. A
mud-covered truck was parked beside it, and three men lounged against it. Two of them wore Plantation
uniforms.

The man in the center was Silvano. He sagged against the side of the truck with his hands cuffed behind
him. Even from this distance, Joaquin could see that he had been beaten. Blood gleamed wet and red on
his face, and he would have fallen if the man beside him hadn't been holding him upright.

Zlia whimpered and tensed.
"No!" Joaquin grabbed her arm, digging his nails into her flesh. "I can fix this." Maybe. "You stay here.
Here!" He shook her, frightened by the intent in her muscles. "Zlia, they'll kill him if you go out there! Do
you understand?"

She looked at him at last, and the terror in her eyes was utterly human. "Yes," she whispered.

Joaquin looked down at the ground, twenty-plus meters away. Without a word, Zlia wound the
smart-line around a limb. He would have to drop the last five meters or so. Joaquin wondered if that
would break bones, was already reaching for the line. He slid down too fast, unable to slow himself, the
supple line burning a streak of fire across his palms. He let go, fell, breath jolting out of his lungs, gasping
for air as he struggled to his feet. One of the Plantation guards glanced his way, and Joaquin shrank back
behind the tree, but the man's glance slid past, as if it couldn't penetrate beyond that boundary of shadow
and sun.

He wondered what they were waiting for. The sound of a distant engine seemed to answer him, and one
of the guards spoke a few words, his voice a little too loud and formal, as if he was speaking over a
comm link. Silvano hunched his shoulders and lifted his head defiantly. Whatever he said annoyed the
guard beside him, because he stepped in front of Silvano and backhanded him brutally. Silvano reeled
against the truck and slid to his knees, hunched as if expecting more blows. The guard drew a small, ugly
gun.