"Linnea Sinclair - Gambit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sinclair Linnea)

Ty climbed out of the black well slowly. Her body ached in spite of the softness
beneath it. She knew the feeling, recognized its dull throb. The last time she'd been
shot was when she tangled with some slime ball dockworkers on Elnar Station.
Before that it'd been... well, as she wasn't dying, there was no sense cataloging her
misadventures.
She opened her eyes slowly, expecting the glare of a white-walled sickbay. But the
lighting in the room was mercifully dim. As if the med-tech on duty had experienced
similar misadventures.
Between the gloom and the pain lacing her senses, it took her several moments to
focus on the figure seated in the chair next to her bed, sonic rifle cradled in his arms.
His thick silver hair was tousled as if he'd run his hands carelessly through it. The
high collar of his dark uniform shirt hung open; his sleeves unevenly rolled up. He
looked rumpled, tired and more than a little disgruntled. Not the usual bedside
manner for a med-tech.
But then, med-techs didn't tote sonic rifles.
Suddenly she remembered where she was. And what she'd been doing. And why.
The sub-light trembling of the drives was noticeably absent. She was on her way to
Maros.
But why wasn't Jhen-Aris on the bridge?
"You almost made it, Moran." He leaned back, then adjusted the rifle's shoulder
strap so the weapon balanced more easily in his hands.
A familiar spider on ice skates ran up her spine.
"I had my suspicions, you know," he said. "The Lifari don't deal with anyone other
than their own kind."
"Do you blame them?" Her voice was raspy. She remembered the cruelty of
Otherworlders when they learned of her heritage.
He didn't answer her question. "Moran's not a Lifarian name."
"My mother was human. My father's family name was Civarsna. But I never used it."
"Raised on the Rachella?"
"Port Charleston. I found the Rachella three years ago, by accident." She closed her
eyes. She had volunteered enough information. Though there was more she knew
she could tell him.
As a child she'd believed she was full-human. Never knew differently until she
discovered she could move objects with her thoughts, could create fire or ice just by
wanting to do so. She had been excited, gleeful. Her mother was terrified and had
sworn her to secrecy, warned her what would happen if anyone found out.
It would start with a witch-brand. An indelible tattoo that would mark her and, at the
same time, strip her of her rights. She would be banned from living, working, hell,
breathing in most of council-sanctioned space.
She'd never be able to work on a sanctioned freighter, let alone purchase one, even
at exorbitant interest rates. Even lowly blue-line contracts would be out of her reach.
It had been a convincing argument. Until her instincts and her loyalties got the better
of her.
There was a bar fight, typical of the spaceport pubs she and her older cousin
frequented. Cornered and frightened, Milena unconscious on the floor beside her,
she lashed out with her mind and found fire streaming from her fingertips. The
Stationers would've killed her, but for two others who stepped in, recognizing her
for what she was: an untrained half-breed.
It was Graeme who saved her life that day. Graeme who became her teacher.
Graeme who had died on the Rachella.