"Charles Stross - Escape" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

superconductors won't do. It's a light switching system. Looks pretty homogeneous, figuring a hook-in
will be a bitch."

"Check," comes another voice. "So you've got their main circuit keyholed? When can we --"

"Peace," says Mik. "Got to get hooked up and let the protocol analyser loose. Got to find how they
transmit their data. Who says they still use binary logic?"

"Okay." The voice is reluctant; I recognize Boris by his manner, bullish when excited. "I've got your
position locked, feeding track to Ish and Raisa. They're nearest; should give you cover. Uh, there's a
signal from your foreign correspondent, it says you should expect --"

Mikhail glances up, suddenly remembering where he is; then an icon flashes carmine, braying in his ear
for attention. Defences come up automatically as a blazing flash lights up the tunnel, shockwaves echoing
round the helix as the 'bomb detonates. Mik rocks on his feet, but unlike a human being his telefactor
body is virtually immune to blast. "Shit. I'm too exposed here." He breaks the connection between his
feet and the floor, shoves himself backwards with alacrity, scuttling away from the unknown intrusion.

"Wait," I say. "Are you sure it's covered --"

"Stuff it!" There's a faint vibration in the walls as he pauses, just round the pitch of the spiral. "You want I
should walk into whatever's coming?" His dispenser contracts twice, ejecting bombs; on the third try it
jams. The two weapons scuttle forwards, clinging to the walls. "Journalists covering the story," Mik
whispers redundantly. "Where's my cover?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. Move --"

There's a noise from behind the curve of wall, a faint pop transmitted through the air as the bombs blow
their tops. Mik braces himself, sensor stalks whipping into sockets in his streamlined body; then the
weapons ignite. The fuel/oxidant aerosol expands to fill a large volume before it detonates -- the blast
jolts him back on his shock absorbers and ripples down the tunnel. His sonar is an engineering casualty.

"Headlines made," he says. "Come on, where is everybody?" He extends his feelers and main laser array.
He begins to move forwards.

"Ish here. We're tracking you, but we got the wrong tunnel mouth. Pitch opposed, okay? We'll be with
you in three, count that, three minutes. Over."

" Shit. Okay." Mikhail looks at the damage. An unidentifiable char is plastered across one section of
wall; fragments of something or other still drift in the low-gee. "My foreign correspondent is dead," he
reports; "press conference is over, linotype jammed. Moving out -- someone else'd better keyhole the
goopware, okay?"

He tanks forwards, pulling himself along with all eight legs. One of them is disturbingly weak, possibly the
result of a damaged motor. I follow him intently, trying to figure a low-cost track to get him in synch with
the nearest backup. The tight pitch defeats radar; visibility is lousy. All I can go by is inertial tracking.
And then -- "hey, what's happening?" No reply. Mik freezes. "Are you alright?" I ask.

Nothing.