"Rajnar Vajra - Afterburn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vajra Rajnar)

think he was right. I think that fear is his best friend."
"Then wouldn't it be possible to monitor all this from another room?"
"Well, we thought of that, certainly. But it's hard to see the, um,
subtleties of his behavior over a video monitor. Those little twitches can be
significant. And, as I'm sure you were told, on occasion we have to make
instant decisions and adjustments. That's why we need a trained expert
standing by at all times." Troy glanced at his watch.
"Thank you, Doctor," Sue said quietly. "You've been very helpful. I'll
try not to bother you again."
"Don't hesitate to call if you need me. And don't expect too much from
yourself. There's a reason why we have a high turnover on this job."
****
Paul
By alternately crouching, dodging, and jumping, I elude three salvos of
knives. One blade I see just an instant too late. It comes in spinning too
fast to stick, but hits hard enough to pierce my armor. A sickening pain
blossoms between my left shoulder and left nipple. I don't know how bad I'm
hurt; I can't see or touch my chest. The pain is severe, but not nearly as bad
as my initial injuries in this place. The first time I was stabbed, I blacked
out. I've never understood why that creature who stabbed me didn't finish me
off. The latest monsters are getting harder and harder to kill but their abuse
seems progressively less agonizing.
I hurriedly switch weapons, selecting one I think might work best
against the bloated wasps: an energy-beam emitter whose disadvantage is that
the beam fizzles out after two seconds, rendering the emitter useless for
hours. I only dare to use it in an emergency, but this certainly qualifies.
My aim has been improving steadily and before the weapon fails, both my
attackers are shredded, their dismembered body-parts bobbing in the river,
which begins bubbling white everywhere flesh has fallen. I try not to dwell on
why the water is bubbling, or how much my chest hurts, or on how much blood I
must be losing. Dwelling on trouble always makes it worse. The secret is to
just keep going, and before too long, all injuries will be forgotten. I have
no idea why this happens, but I have no time to ponder mysteries.
The structure on the island seems to be an ancient ruined cathedral.
Its granite outer walls are cracked and its roof had, at one point, apparently
exploded upwards leaving only twisted metal beams that nearly scrape the
limestone ceiling so high above. The building is immense enough for gods to
assemble and worship each other. The polished marble doors, a good hundred
feet high, swing open soundlessly as I approach. Getting into buildings is
rarely this easy. But as I accept the invitation and step inside, the doors
swing closed behind me and I hear the clank of a mighty lock snapping shut. In
all likelihood, I will not be leaving this way, assuming I ever have the
chance to leave.
The vestibule is long and dark, but with the wall-cracks and open roof,
I can see another set of doors ahead. River sounds are absent here, replaced
with ominously deep creaking and skirls of strange music. Someone may be
playing a harmonium nearby, and many voices are producing something akin to
Gregorian chanting. These out-of-tune voices are mostly so inhumanly
low-pitched that I fervently hope to never run into the choir.
As I approach the new and far smaller doorway, the floor begins to