"George R. R. Martin - And Seven Times Never Kill Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

crunchy green neograss. Children below the fighting age of ten, in smocks
of starchy white and the omnipresent mesh-steel belts, filled the two
outermost tables beneath the slit-like windows; toddlers struggled to sit
still under the watchful eyes of stern nine-year-old houseparents with
hardwood batons in their belts. Further in, the fighting brotherhood sat,
fully armed, at two equally long tables, men and women alternating,
leather-skinned veterans sitting next to ten-year-olds who had barely
moved from the children's dorm to the barracks. All of them wore the
same chameleon cloth as Wyatt, though without his collar, and a few had
buttons of rank. The center table, less than half the length of the others,
held the cadre of the Steel Angels; the squadfathers and squadmothers,
the weaponsmasters, the healers, the four fieldbishops, all those who wore
the high, stiff crimson collar. And the Proctor, at its head.
"Let us eat," Wyatt said at last. His sword moved above his table with a
whoosh, describing the slash of blessing, and he sat to his meal. The
Proctor, like all the others, had stood single-file in the line that wound
past the kitchen to the mess hall, and his portions were no larger than the
least of the brotherhood.
There was a clink of knives and forks, and the infrequent clatter of a
plate, and from time to time the thwack of a baton, as a house-parent
punished some transgression of discipline by one of his charges; other
than that, the hall was silent. The Steel Angels did not speak at meals, but
rather meditated on the lessons of the day as they consumed their spartan
fare.
Afterwards, the children—still silent—marched out of the hall, back to
their dormitory. The fighting brotherhood followed, some to chapel, most
to the barracks, a few to guard duty on the walls. The men they were
relieving would find late meals still warm in the kitchen.
The officer core remained; after the plates were cleared away, the meal
became a staff meeting.
"At ease," Wyatt said, but the figures along the table relaxed little, if at
all. Relaxation had been bred out of them by now. The Proctor found one
of them with his eyes. "Dhallis," he said, "you have the report I
requested?"
 Fieldbishop Dhallis nodded. She was a husky middle-aged woman with
thick muscles and skin the color of brown leather. On her collar was a
small steel insignia, an ornamental memory-chip that meant Computer
Services. "Yes, Proctor," she said, in a hard, precise voice. "Jamison's
World is a fourth-generation colony, settled mostly from Old Poseidon.
One large continent, almost entirely unexplored, and more than twelve
thousand islands of various sizes. The human population is concentrated
almost entirely on the islands, and makes its living by farming sea and
land, aquatic husbandry, and heavy industry. The oceans are rich in food
and metal. The total population is about seventy-nine million. There are
two large cities, both with spaceports: Port Jamison and Jolostar." She
looked down at the computer printout on the table. "Jamison's World was
not even charted at the time of the Double War. It has never known
military action, and the only Jamie armed forces are their planetary
police. It has no colonial program and has never attempted to claim
political jurisdiction beyond its own atmosphere."