"Tom Kratman - A Desert Called Peace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kratman Tom)

the Consensus doesn't want it to start up again. Besides, what would we do with half a billion
educated, industrialized, militarized proles. Ugly thought, that is. And if the wretches started to
actually think?
E. Change Terra Nova. But how . . .
***
The auction went well, a beneficiary of Terra Nova's cosmopolitan upper class' new found fetish for
the luxuries of Old Earth. With what the serfs on Atlantis could grow, Robinson had enough to feed his
fleet for another few decades, and even to buy – under the table – most or even all of the parts and fuel
he needed. It put him into rather a good mood, actually, an especially good mood when he considered
the portion, twenty percent of the auction's proceeds, that was his by right as the High Admiral of the
fleet.
So good was Robinson's mood that he was even willing to listen to Unni Wiglan, the Commissioner
for Culture from the Tauran Union.
"I was thinking about your question, High Admiral," the leggy blond said between sips of
champagne. "I admit, I was a little shocked at it. I am, all we cosmopolitan progressives are, so used to
thinking of Earth – its advanced social development, technology and culture – as being so superior to
what we have that it sometimes comes as a surprise that you are not omnipotent."
Robinson shrugged. "Earth is very far down the road," he said, without mention of whether that road
was the right one or not. From his point of view things were pretty good; worth upholding and defending,
in any case. Would he have felt the same if he'd been born a prole, forced to eke out a living from the soil
or burrow in its depths for ore or freeze on the fishing boats that dotted Earth's oceans? Would he still
think so if, instead of his own potential five hundred or more year lifespan, he knew he would have been
extraordinarily lucky to reach even an eighth of that? Would he think so if, instead of being able to bed
lissome blondes like this one, he had to share his bed with some toothless prole crone? Somehow he
doubted it.
"Yes," Unni agreed. "That's precisely it. Earth is far down the road that Terra Nova should be on,
but isn't. The reason we aren't is the damned Federated States. By looting the world, by taking a totally
unfair share of its resources, by exploiting the poor, the Federated States are able to make a more
proper system, one like Earth has, seem inefficient. So, other nations here – doesn't that word make you
ill, High Admiral? "Nations?" As if there could be any nation but the nation of Humanity – follow the
FSC's lead. And we can't make any progress here on Terra Nova at all while the FSC stands in the
way."
"I am not sure what I can do about it though, my dear Unni." Sure. Why not make the slight effort
to remember the bimbo's name? Costs nothing and might pay, as long as she doesn't insist on
talking afterwards.
"I can do something about it," interrupted a dark man who had slid up unnoticed.
Robinson looked over at the newcomer. Then he looked up . . . and up.
The man was tall, nearly two meters in height. In front was a long, untrimmed beard, half gone to
gray, that hung to his waist. His head was covered with a checked cloth, held in place by a retaining band
made of cylindrical beads interspersed with spherical ones of gold. Robinson thought the cylindrical
beads might be of some precious stone, though he could not immediately identify it.
"I can do something about it," the dark man repeated. "I am Mustafa ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min
Sa'ana, Emir of the Ikhwan."
"Oh, Mustafa, piss off, won't you?" said Unni. "You've tried that trick with the FSC so many times
and nothing has come of it."
"Silence, infidel houri," Mustafa commanded. "I lacked the means. The High Admiral can give me
those means."
Wiglan stiffened under the insult. Robinson made a moue. He asked, "What "means?" And what is
this Ikhwan of which you are . . . the leader?"
"The Ikhwan is the Brotherhood, the Brotherhood of true believers," Mustafa answered. "What we