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

It wasn’t that Storm had a thing for boomrats. When he’d first located his compound at the fringe of the Ataract
forests, he’d cursed at_the skinny little rodents more than once. The thieving, fractious critters stole his supplies and
ranged over their territory like packs of bandits, shoulder to shoulder, kits in the middle and scarred veterans to the
outside, though they were scarcely big enough to give a predator a decent mouthful. They walked on their hind legs,
to look bigger and more ferocious, Storm thought. And when they’d discovered Samson Breweries’ malt fields, they
thought they’d walked into paradise. At first it hadn’t been necessary to kill them—the boomrats ate themselves to
death, unused to the luxury of abundant food. Jack had walked through rows of chewed-off stalks, with bloated
boomrats belly-up in the aisles.
That hadn’t taken them too long to figure out. Then the crop eating began in earnest and he’d had to go toe to toe
with Samson to give the little critters the right to live. Luckily, the sonic fences he’d devised seemed to work all right.
Storm didn’t know what niche the boomrats occupied in the ecology of Claron yet, but he knew he’d find out. And he
was pleased with himself for saving them for that niche until then.
The dawn fled completely. The mauve horizon of Claron’s southern sky hugged the forest and mountain ridge fiercely.
He looked out toward the plains, to the mines, and saw the white funnels of their steamstacks. He felt like a little
company. In a day or two, after this tour, he might go into Upside, and say hello. A little public relations, and private,
would go good right about now.
He kicked the starter and swung on, the skimmer shuddering into life beneath him. Its shadow skimmed the dirt clod
meadow and took off as he throttled it forward. He’d have to learn to spend more time on the Ataract ... it was
supposed to be the site of his permanent base, but he’d found excuses to keep the compound relatively mobile for
several years. He didn’t like staring into the eye of Star Gate on the eastern edge, even though that was principally
why he was on Claron— why they’d needed a Ranger.
He was little more than a Gatekeeper. Oh, the exobiology work he did was important, but only if colonists started
moving in, next to the miners. But it was the Gate—unnatural hole in the fabric of the universes—it was minding the
Gate that had put him there. And so Storm watched it. He watched it with the faint prickling of hair at the back of his
neck, as he comprehended just what it was he dealt with, unlike most of the locals. No, Storm knew its powers all too
well. Claron had been discovered at the other side of the hole when the Gate had been punched through, and it had
taken the energy of a small nova to do it. Star Gates were few and far between, being too expensive and too dangerous
to the patterns of the galaxies to use. This one had been a fortuitous accident ... and would stay that way, as long as
he was assigned as Ranger. The Dominion did not want it expanded.
Jack wanted it closed, but knew that wasn’t likely to happen either.
He sighed as he brought the skimmer in line with the golden eye. It was a short run from the compound. He measured it
off, to be sure it was still anchored. The energy waves radiating from it rippled. He’d set up low level sonic posts to be
sure nothing from Claron absentminedly wandered into it—although the corner of Jack’s mouth twitched at the
thought of a pack of boomrats wandering into the Gate. He’d like to see the fraction of a second long, wide-eyed
expressions on their rodent faces when faced with deep space.
Measurements done, he swung the skimmer about, and turned on his recorder. The morning breeze of the Ataract
swept his face, drying the nervous beads of perspiration on his forehead. It was a raw breeze, and spiced, smelling
nothing like the planet he’d grown up on. Dorman’s Stand had been an agra-planet, with the smell of freshly loamed
earth and tangy pesticides, and freshly harvested vegetables. He took a deep breath. He’d almost forgotten what
Dorman’s Stand had smelled like ... dampened by the years spent in the stink of his own sweat and lubricants of the
battle armor.
Storm brought the skimmer to idle and stalled there, in midair. He felt uneasy. The Ataract was relatively quiet this
morning. No boomrats were out. Yet the sun was up. He rubbed the back of his neck. He felt vaguely on edge, the way
he usually did before an assault drop—
Jack swung the skimmer about, and began to patch in his recorder to the compound computer. His hand trembled and
he cursed as he fumbled over the keys missed by the amputated tenth finger. He looked up, caught a vision of the tree
looming in front of him and leaned over, pulling the skimmer around it. But it brought the machine skewing to a halt,
trembling in the air, and he caught himself panting.
He took a deep breath and got control of himself. The terminal vibrated under his fingertips, letting him know it had
made the connection, and he dropped his gaze to read the board. Everything was fine. There was nothing in this