"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 01 - Solar Kill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

The hangover surged through his cranium and he put a hand out for balance as he sat up. He stuck it into his helmet,
cursed softly, pulled his helmet into his lap, then put his hand where he’d intended it to go, each movement as
deliberate and painstaking as he could make it.
His eyes watered and, helpless to dry them, he sat until they quit, and he watched the shadowed alleyway, listening to
the throb in his head that threatened to kill him. That had been some party, all right. He didn’t remember having been
dropped here at all—and probably none of the rest of the crew, who snored around him in sodden heaps, would
remember either. Jack smiled ruefully. They’d been wined and dined, and then put out with the rest of the garbage.
Tubs groaned in his sleep. He cradled an empty bottle of champagne to his chest, and a torn piece of sapphire blue
veil.
Jack watched him. Then, as his mind and sight cleared, he examined all the other sleepers in the alleyway with him ...
and minded that he didn’t see Marciane anywhere. The back of his neck tickled in warning, and Storm got to his feet,
even though the sudden rise in pressure threatened to blow the top of his head off.
What had happened to the reverence the captain had held for the Knights, Jack wasn’t sure, but it had evaporated,
replaced by a sense of bitterness and wariness and—opportunity. Opportunity for what, Storm didn’t know, but he
knew that Marciane was a soldier of opportunity if nothing else. Something about the suit and his background had led
Marciane into an opportunity, and Jack didn’t want to be caught with his suit off, when he found out what it was. In
the condition he was in, he was definitely vulnerable.
Stepping gingerly around the crew of the Montreal, Jack made his way to the mouth of the alleyway and peered out.
The shock of what he saw added to the ringing of his ears.
They’d been dumped in what was definitely the underbelly of the city complex. The begrimed and garish buildings
were a thin facade over the hellhole he looked out at. The only thing that had saved them from getting their throats cut
was undoubtedly the earliness of the hour—and even that wouldn’t hold them much longer. Jack hesitated. He
couldn’t leave Tubs and Short-Jump and the others behind to the mercy of streets that obviously had no mercy.
The hesitation nearly cost him his life. He only saw Marciane out of the corner of his eye when it was almost too late,
and then, as he ducked, the slicing blow caught the point of his shoulder, and bounced off the Flexalinks. The power
blade hummed nastily as Marciane gathered himself, the knife a blurred blue streak.
Marciane swore, as the alleyway filled with street toughs, hard-expressioned kids who jerked the crew of the Montreal
to their feet. The hum of power blades cut through the groan of hangovers, as the crew stood up, their faces sagging,
and abruptly sobered.
Jack faced down Marciane. “You’re ready to sacrifice your crew just to get me?”
“No ... no, I had a deal with someone. It went wrong. Actually, I helped it. I decided that I already had all the
advantages. Hurry up. Give me the suit, Jack—that’s all I want. Give me the suit, and you got a free pass to walk out of
here. My ex-partners will be here soon.”
Jack laughed humorlessly. “Without the suit, I doubt I could get far in this part of town.” He gazed past Marciane to
the dubious escort. One of the youths grinned and flashed his power blade. The knife hummed, slicers flashing in the
morning light.
“Maybe. Maybe not. You could maybe catch a taxi that’d stop for you and that wad of Dominion credits I gave you
last night. Course, you’d only have one chance to flash your bank roll— and if he didn’t stop, you’d be fair game on
the streets.” Marciane’s dark eyes glittered. “I know you’re not hooked or powered up. It’s only a matter of time until
we get our hands on you and turn the suit upside down and shake it until you fall out.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so. It’s only a matter of time.”
Jack glimpsed a sudden movement and shifted slightly, to protect his flank better. The buildings leaned in around
them. They were close in the alleyway, too close, and it was to both Jack’s advantage and disadvantage. “Why just
the suit now? Not too long ago, you wanted me in it.”
Marciane’s face worked, and then he spat to one side. “Because now I know what you’ve done in it and what you’ve
done to it—to its honor. You’re a goddamn vigilante, killing Thraks in spite of the treaty, thinking you’re some kind of
flaming hero because your dad won the right to wear the suit and then packed it away for you. Well, let me tell you
something, kid—you’re not fit to polish the links or flush out the plumbing in that thing. Real Knights had honor.”
Jack saw the power blade swing up toward his head before the captain even finished his sentence. He put up his left