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

staging as they make ready to load three massive cold ships brings him back
to reality sometime after the crew has checked his palm and retinal prints.

The cryo nurse puts a kit into his hand. "You'll need this, soldier.
Showers are to the right. This is your locker number. Stow your kit in it
before you report to the lab."

The man will not meet Jack's gaze. He says, although it is not necessary,
and he knows the nurse has no time to listen. "We lost Milos."

"No kidding."

"I'm sorry. I tried."

The nurse pauses. Jack feels the impatience and weariness of the men
lined up behind him. The nurse shrugs, answering, "You think you're
responsible for the whole damn war? Now get a move on, soldier. We've got
a deadline. We've got to get our asses out of here before the bugs know
they've won."

Jack showers, luxuriating in the feel of real water, before the cut off leaves
him half lathered and dripping. He towels off, dresses from the kit, general
issue that fits much too tightly across the shoulders and thighs—general
issue not being cut for a man who wears armor—and joins the masses in the
hold as they stow their gear. Over the com lines, they receive a stream of
instruction, the harsh voice falling, for the main part, on deaf ears. They are
troops. They've been through this before. The only thing they want now is
a hot meal—not possible before chill down—and some rest. The rest they'll
get: months in cold sleep. The cold ship hold is immense and stacked to the
ceiling with the coffinlike cryos. He works his way down the aisles to his
locker and opens it.

The Flexalinks wink at him, an obscene pearl hanging from the
equipment racks. The NCO loading the transport bellows once more, and
this time he hears the announcement, "Your suits have been infested. They
will be maintained in quarantine until we can determine their status and
either flush or destroy them."

No suit, no soldier.

"Line up and file in, in an orderly fashion," the NCO bellows again, and
around him, he can hear the tired shuffling of those still on their feet, the
ones who are able enough to walk.

He tells himself he is lucky. He tells himself that thousands have died so
a few hundred can make it to these transports. He tells himself that he will
somehow bring victory out of this horrifying defeat. He is still a Knight, and
he still wears battle armor.

The suit swings on its rack, splashed with soot and blood and the ichor of