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

Jack shook his head, laughing so softly that when she met his mouth with
a kiss, she was surprised to feel the laughter vibrating pleasantly in his lips.



Springtime had come to Malthen and its under-belly, the slums known
simply as under-Malthen. Green shoots ignored the still gray skies and
slanting drizzle as the freezing rains of winter warmed. They pushed their
insistent growth upward, fracturing concrete and perma-plast. Only the
rose-pink obsidite walls of the emperor's residence, the palace of the Triad
Throne, could deny them life. Here the grass retreated and settled to a life of
surrender in the lawns and grounds, which was a far better fate than that
which it faced on the Training grounds. No matter how brave the grass or
weed, it was destroyed when hard-heeled boots of Flexalink ground it to
dust. It grew relentlessly, only to be trampled by battle armor.

This day it had a respite, and pushed through the first wet splatters of
rain, ignorant of its fate.

Lassaday, first sergeant of the Dominion Knights, first D.I. of the
Malthen training station, his chunky body as hard as the Flexalinks worn by
a Knight, his bald head darkened and weathered by the usual Malthen
sunshine, hung his elbows over the observation railing and spat in disgust.
The grounds were empty, on a day when the veterans and recruits should
have been drilling, ill-weather or not. The Walker riots confined them all to
base and he had little choice about his assignments. He could only thank his
lucky stars that it had brought out the Thraks first, Minister Vandover
taking advantage of the human fearfulness of the aliens to keep the
dissenters at bay.

The sergeant looked over the pitted and battle-scarred retaining walls.
His cheek bulged with the wad of stim he chewed and he spat another
mud-like droplet over the railing when the alert came in over the com line.
He answered it, taking his orders gruffly, and keyed off. He pulled back
from the railing after a last look at the acreage before him and went
downstairs.

The shop was as empty as the grounds, racks of battle armor in repair
hanging silent. The locker rooms, permeated by an odor of fear as palpable
as the odor of sweat, were vacant except for the robosweep, squeaking as it
toured the aisles in its janitorial mode. Lassaday strode through, aware of
the cameras following him as he made his own sentry rounds. He heaved a
sigh as he broke into the fresh air once again.

The barracks, however, teemed with activity as Lassaday approached
them. Recruits and veterans sat in knots, polishing their minor
equipment—bracers, gauntlets, small arms—or they stood around idly
gossiping.

"Th' emperor's ship is ported. I want an honor guard of twelve