"James Doohan - Flight Engineer Volume 1-The Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doohan James)

loved was no great hardship. It’s watching them fly without me on board
that hurts. He’d graduated at the top of his class; those he couldn’t best
were the men and women who’d taught him to be a flight engineer. And
once I get a little more experience under my belt, watch out folks.
 So he’d still be around Speeds, and he’d be part of the war effort.
After all, it wasn’t just a matter of fighting a bunch of religious fanatics
anymore. Raeder’s eyes strayed to a holographic poster on the wall -
behind the bar.
KNOW YOUR ENEMY! it demanded, and it showed a Fibian soldier in
an aggressive pose. The Mollies had found themselves an alien ally
lurking at the far edges of their space. Rather like a long ago Irish king
who’d sought aid from the English in fighting his battles. The Mollie
Interpreters were discovering that their allies had no more intention of
peacefully going home again than Strongbow’s Norman knights.
In my humble opinion, the Fibs’ve decided to grab all the fuel in the
universe just for themselves, Peter thought. Which somehow makes me
feel like an endangered species.
To human eyes, Fibians were . . . well, if some propagandist had set
out to design a species which pushed all humanity’s “horror” buttons,
this would be it. They bore a strong resemblance to spiders, with a
scorpion’s pedi-palps evolved into an armored three-fingered hand. Their
bodies were a dull red, covered with leathery scales and sparse, coarse
hair. They had eight beady, black eyes, two of which were able to see
into the ultraviolet. Fibs had eight legs, as well, each tipped with a three-
fingered claw. Their mouth-parts were sharp, horny cutting implements
accompanied by a formidable pair of pincers used for holding prey while
it was being cut up and stuffed into a translucent digestive sack in the
abdomen.
Raeder shuddered. Messy eaters, he thought.
Fibians spoke through a flexible tube, like an elephant’s trunk, located
in the general area that a nose would occupy in a human. At the end of
their abdomen was a long, slender tail, tipped with an acid stinger.
Only a lunatic bunch of misanthropes like the Mollies would ever turn
to these aliens for help in fighting their own kind, Peter thought. I
wonder if the general population of Mollies even realizes that their
Interpreters have lost control of the Fibs. Come to think of it, I wonder if
the Interpreters realize it.
Raeder found it ironic in the extreme that the Commonwealth was now
shedding its blood to free the rebels from their allies, while the Mollies
killed their Welter saviors in the idiotic belief that by doing so they were
saving themselves.
But then, to be a Mollie in the first place you’re required to have the
IQ of a glass of water.
“Commander Raeder?”
Peter turned to find himself confronting the radiant grin of a very
young shuttle pilot. She was about five feet four, with a cap of curly
blond hair and a face made pretty by youth and enthusiasm.
“I have your orders, sir.” She presented the disk briskly and saluted
with traditional pilot sloppiness.
Raeder gave her a better one in return. “Thanks,” he said with a smile.