"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 06 - Challenge Met" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

The curls of Jonathan's thick dark hair stirred, as if attracted by some
electricity between his head and Jack's hand. The Walker aide was pelted as
thickly as some bear. He lay beneath the sterile sheets, his shoulders bared
and the hair upon them was as thick as that upon his head. Jack dropped his
hand upon the massive forearm—muscular potential, strong but not bulked.
If he had been the type to wear a battle suit, he'd have been a behemoth.

At the touch of skin to skin, the near lifeless form convulsed. Amber's
gasp echoed the clarion sound of alarms going off. Jack sprang back a step
from the hospital bed as monitor screens danced with bright illumination.

"What's happening?" Amber called out, the edge of her voice thin and
high with fear.

Jonathan's bulk jumped and thumped upon the bed. His convulsions
began breaking and discharging leads and wires by the handful. Jack could
hear sudden activity behind the observation wall and knew that help was on
its way. Until then, to keep Jonathan's body from flopping off the bed, he
reached out and held him down.

Time seemed to become thick and he stuck in it. He could hear Amber's
voice, but not the words she said. They were too long and drawn out for
him to make sense of them. She's panicky, he thought, and wondered at
that, knowing that there were few things beyond her control and thought
again that that must be the cause of her panic. He could not feel the
unleashed energy of the life support crèche surging through himself as well
as Jonathan's flailing body. He could not hear the crackle of the discharge
nor sense his hair standing upon end as it did so. He. knew only that
Jonathan's hands were gripping him, dragging him down, pulling him close,
and that the aide's eyes, ringed with white, were wide open. His mouth
worked. "Help me," the sick man gasped, just before the hospital staff tore
him from Jack's arms.



"A hypnotic induced coma," Baadluster said, his fleshy lips thinning in
satisfaction. "Though a poorly constructed one. Jonathan might have died."

"Self-induced?"

The Minister of War shrugged, his storm crow robes moving sluggishly
about his tall and lumpy form. "Perhaps. He's not said, and the staff tells me
he's resting now. You heard more from him than anyone."

Jack frowned, remembering the frantic burbling of words that had spilled
from Jonathan before the staff had managed to separate the two of them. He
shook his head. "He was incoherent."

"I see," the minister said, but there was disbelief in his voice. "And you?"
He looked to Amber. "Perhaps you caught something in all the confusion."