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

sand from underground nests to launch themselves in a four-footed wave until they got close enough to stand up and
take fire. Thraks were vicious creatures with but a single purpose—total destruction—at least, fighting Thraks were.
Diplomatic Thraks were as vicious in a more insidious way.
He cocked his finger, setting off a burst of fire from his glove weapons that slowed the wave. The line of Thraks
wavered and swung away, even as they stood up and slung their rifles around from their backs.
On Milos, they had the slight advantage, having gotten there first and having begun their despicable terraforming.
Even a slight advantage to the Thraks was disastrous to the Dominion. Milot was already as good as lost . . .
battalions had been wiped out, driven back to the deserts, to make as graceful a retreat as possible. Inflict as many
casualties as they could, then pull out. Jack’s job, as he understood it, was to make the toll of taking Milos so heavy,
so dear, that the Thraks would stop here.
Storm’s grim smile never wavered, even as he strode forward, spewing death as he went, watching the gauge detailing
how much power he had left. Bodies crunched under his armored boots.
They were mopping up. They were to distract the Thraks and the cannon long enough to let most of the troop ships,
cold ships, pull out, and then they would be picked up. That was the promise....
He strides through the line, knowing the wings of his men will follow, and seeing that the front is not a front, but an
unending wave of Thraks. What was reported as a minor outpost is a major staging area, and he’s trapped in it, wading
through broken bodies and seared flesh. He sweeps both gloves into action, firing as he walks, using the power boost
to vault over newly formed walls of bodies and equipment.
Somewhere along the way, Bilosky lets out a cry and grinds to a halt, out of power. He screams as his suit is slit open
with a diamond cutter and the Thraks pull him out. Jack ignores the screams and plows onward. He has no choice now.
The pullout site is ahead of him. He has to go through the Thraks if he wants to be rescued. Ahead of him is the dream
of cold sleep and the journey home. The dream....
Surrounded by what is left of his troop, and by stragglers from other battalions, he lives long enough to fall into a pit,
a pit ringed by Thraks. The Dominion warriors stand back to back for days, firing only when absolutely necessary,
watching the unending wave of Thrakians above them. And he sees a suit burst open, days after its wearer expired
with a horrendous scream, and the armor halted like a useless statue in the pit. He sees the seams pop and an
incredible beast plow out, and charge the rim of the pit, taking fully a hundred armed Thrakians with it, even as it
bellows. He knows he is dreaming that he has seen a berserker, and tries to ignore the shell-like empty suit left behind
in shards, with the crest of Ivanhoe settling into the sand.
Even as he stands and fires, he thinks of what it is he wants to dream. He wants to dream getting out of there alive,
with his men. That is what he wants most. Then he wants to be able to scratch. And he thinks he hears something
inside the suit with him, something whispering at his shoulder, and he knows he’s losing it. Aunt Min back home
always said that when the Devil wanted you, he began by whispering to you over your shoulder. Storm is scared to
turn around. All he wants to do is find his dream of going home. And when the recall comes, he doesn’t know if he’s
hearing what he’s hearing or not ... or if he can even be found behind the wall of Thraks.
A gigantic metal gate clanks open.
“... no survivors.”
“There can’t be. This ship has been adrift for seventeen years. All systems are shut down, some kind of massive
power failure. Look at them. Frozen solid. Transported out of hell, only to die on the way home. God. Look at these
antique cryogenic units. No wonder they didn’t make it.”
Jack is still dreaming. He sweats cold tears because he can’t wake. He’s locked in. The twenty-two years of his life play
over and over like a moebius strip. But he senses a stirring.
“One of the bays is illuminated, doctor.”
“My god. The auxiliary system is still functioning here. Get the life support in here, and quickly. We might just be able
to save this one—“
“But orders—“
“Fuck orders! Imagine finding one of them alive, after all these years ... and I’m going to do everything to keep him that
way.”
A tingle of warmth in his icy existence. Is he dreaming or dying?
“If we wake him, do you think he’ll be sane? What does a man dream of for seventeen years?”