"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 04 - Alien Salute" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

He could feel the heat reflecting off the harvester's grill, waffling off his
face. He'd have freckles for sure after this!

The cap swooped down, locking over fowl and nest. Jack shoveled in his
other hand underneath and plucked the nest from the ground, a mere meter
from the harvester's whirling blade. He turned and rant

He didn't stop running until he reached the windbreak. There, he found a
tree with a comfortable fork that he could reach if he shinnied up high
enough. It was tough going with the nest in hand, but he made it, locked his
legs around the trunk and deposited the nest. He left the cap on it and fell
back to earth.

The grass here was lean and stringy, half-browned by the sun, and it did
little to cushion his fall. Jack leaned back on his spare hips and bruised
elbows—always bruised, he remembered—and watched the nest. The cap
joggled and dimpled as something under it moved.

He had to leave it alone now, leave it alone or risk chasing off the mother
bird for good. He knew that. He knew almost as much about the local
creatures as he did about his father's farm. So he watched as the mother bird
emerged, fluffing her wings out indignantly, and knocking the cap off
herself. It fell to one side and hung on a slender twig. He thought of what
he'd tell his brother to get him to come out of the house and see what had
happened to his cap.

The mother bird looked over her nest and appeared to be satisfied with
conditions. Jack caught his breath. He, too, was satisfied. As he got ready to
get to his feet and dust himself off, the twig broke and the cap slid down to
land at his feet. Jack grinned and picked it up. All in all, a good day.

Jack sat up. The suit moved with him. Bogie said, *I cannot control it.*

"I understand," Jack answered. He drew in his breath. His brother. The
farm. His father. He'd forgotten most of that. He leaned his head forward,
touching the cool shield of the visor to his forehead. He had his nightmares
of the Thraks. He'd encountered one or two as a free mercenary. He knew
what he had to know to face them.

He got to his feet. The gauntlets flexed as he balled his hands. Nine
fingers clenched. Ten in his memory of a boy scooping a nest out of the path
of destruction. How close had that blade been? Perhaps it would have been
only a matter of time until he'd had that finger sheared off, for he'd cheated
the blades that day. The scar ached in response.

* Again,* Bogie said.
 He wanted to tell her she was free, but he was afraid she'd smell the
murders of two men on his hands, and so he decided to wait until morning
to gift her with their deaths.