"Clayton Emery - Blood Sacrifice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

REASSEMBLED. HURT LIKE HELL.
"Jesus!"

YOU TOO.

"Me?"
FOUND PICTUREGRAPHS. MACHINES R CALLIBRATED FOR ALIENS. SHOULDN'T
HURT. ARMOR SHOULD HARDEN IN MINUTES. YOU TURDS TOO BUSY CONQUERING
UNIVERSE TO THINK.

"Think about --"
ARENA.
Bullock remembered the vast chamber with tiered seats, all hewed from stone.

ALIENS CAME HERE. SHOVED TWO GUYS DOWN CHUTE. ONE TURNS INTO
SCORP, OTHER GETS ARMOR. FIGHT IN ARENA. OR MAYBE TRAINING TO PLAY
WAR. NOT SURE.

"No! Nobody'd turn themself into a -- monster!"
HUMAN THINKING. THIS IS *ALIEN* PYSCHOLOGY. WHO KNOWS?

"But -- What're you --"
The scorpion Jessup clittered to a fresh wall. Granite crumbs rained as it scratched.
ORGANIZING, LIKE TRIAL FRAMED ME. TALKING TO OTHER SCORPS.

"Oh, no..."
SOME SCORPS GO NUTS AND ATTACK YOU. SOME GO NUTS AND WE GOTTA KILL.
BUT *THOUSANDS* DOWN THERE. *PISSED*.
Bullock whimpered.

WE TRAIN. A SCORP ARMY. KILL YOU REDS, TAKE SHIP, GET MORE SHIPS, LOAD
UP *EVERYBODY*. GO HOME, LAND ON TOP OF FASCIST HQ. BITE HEADS OFF,
SUE FOR PEACE WITH UNDERGROUND.

"You can't --"
GOODBYE EMPIRE, scratched the stinger.

Pincers flexed around Bullock's neck. He kicked and beat his fists, like pounding iron bars.
"Wait, Jessup! Listen! We can deal! Why bite someone's head off?"
The stinger etched the wall. THATS' BEST PART.
Jessup's pincers snipped off Bullock's head like a grape.

It tasted great.
END