"George R. R. Martin - Manna From Heaven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Manna From Heaven
George R.R. Martin
Analog
Mid-December, 1985

The S’uthlamese armada was sweeping the outskirts of the solar system, moving through the velvet
darkness of space with all the stately silent grace of a tiger on the prowl, on an interception course with
the Ark.
Haviland Tuf sat before his master console, scanning the banks of telescreens and computer monitors
with small, careful turns of his head. The fleet angling to meet him appeared more formidable with every
passing moment. His instruments reported some fourteen capital ships and swarms of smaller fighters.
Nine bulbous silver-white globes, bristling with unfamiliar weaponry, comprised the wings of the
formation. Four long black dreadnaughts served as outriders on the flanks of the wedge, their dark hulls
crackling with energy. The flagship in the center was a colossal saucer-shaped fort with a diameter Tuf’s
sensors measured as six kilometers from rim to rim. It was the largest spaceship that Haviland Tuf had
seen since the day, more than ten years past, when he had first sighted the derelict Ark. Fighters
swarmed around the saucer like angry stinging insects.
Tuf’s long, pale, hairless face was still and unreadable, but in his lap, Dax made a small sound of disquiet
as Tuf pressed his fingertips together.
A flashing light indicated an incoming communication.
Haviland Tuf blinked, reached out with calm deliberation, and took the call.
He had expected a face to materialize on the telescreen in front of him. He was disappointed. The caller’s
features were hidden by a faceplate of black plasteel, inset into the helmet of a mirror-finish warsuit. A
stylized representation of the globe of S’uthlam ornamented the flanged crest upon his forehead. Behind
the faceplate, wide-spectra sensors glowed red like two burning eyes. It reminded Haviland Tuf of an
unpleasant man he had once known.
“It was unnecessary to dress formally on my account,” Tuf said flatly. “Moreover, while the size of the
honor guard you have sent to meet me tickles my vanity somewhat, a much smaller and less
prepossessing squadron would have been more than sufficient. The present formation is so large and
formidable as to give one pause. A man of a less trusting nature than myself might be tempted to
misconstrue its purpose and suspect some intent to intimidate.”
“This is Wald Ober, commander of the Planetary Defense Flotilla of S’uthlam, Wing Seven,” the grim
visage on the telescreen announced in a deep, distorted voice.
“Wing Seven,” Tuf repeated. “Indeed. This suggests the possibility of at least six other similarly fearsome
squadrons. It would seem that S’uthlamese planetary defenses have been augmented somewhat since my
last call.”
Wald Ober wasn’t interested. “Surrender at once, or be destroyed,” he said bluntly.
Tuf blinked. “I fear some grievous misunderstanding.”
“A state of war exists between the Cybernetic Republic of S’uthlam and the so-called alliance of
Vandeen, Jazbo, Henry’s World, Skrymir, Roggandor, and the Azure Triune. You have entered a
restricted zone. Surrender or be destroyed.”
“You misapprehend me, sir,” Tuf said. “I am a neutral in this unfortunate confrontation, of which I was
unaware until this moment. I am part of no faction, cabal, or alliance, and represent only myself, an
ecological engineer with the most benign of motives. Please do not take alarm at the size of my ship.
Surely in the small space of five standard years the esteemed spinnerets and cybertechs of the Port of
S’uthlam cannot entirely have forgotten my previous visits to your most interesting world. I am
Haviland—”
“We know who you are, Tuf,” said Wald Ober. “We recognized the Ark as soon as you shifted out of
drive. The alliance doesn’t have any dreadnaughts thirty kilometers long, thank life. I have specific orders
from the High Council to watch for your appearance.”