"Steve Perry - The Man Who Never Missed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

There were a lot more efficient weapons, he knew. Hand wands sent a fan-shaped
pulse which could take half a dozen people out at a single strobe; explosive
rocket or bullet throwers could blow through armor which would stop a
spetsdod's flechette; implosion bombs wiped away steel as if it were butter.
But it had to be spetsdods. The choice had not been a hard one. Spetsdods were
used by the military sometimes, but they were essentially civilian weapons, so
that was a necessity. And a Spasm-loaded dart slinger did not kill, that was
another point. Finally, a spetsdod required skill to use properly, more than
wands or explosive guns or bombs. A man who went after targets in class two
armor with a spetsdod was either very good or a fool. A miss and he would
likely be dead. That part was as important as any of it, the skill needed. If
it was going to be built to work, it had to be built right. He'd had years to
think about it and the spetsdod was the right answer. It had taken him more
years to become truly expert in the use of the flechette weapon. There were
some better, perhaps, but that didn't matter. He was good enough. He had been
so far, at least.

The spetsdods were ready. He found a set of spookeyes and slipped them on,
pushed back on his forehead. He took a sublingual tablet and allowed it to
dissolve under his tongue. The chemical had a long and complex name, but it
was called Reflex by those who used it. It affected nerves, from peripheral to
central nervous system, and its effect was simple enough: the drug speeded up
reaction time. The effect varied from person to person, but in Khadaji's case,
he was able to move faster than a bacteria-augmented soldier-of-the-line, for
short periods. There were some nasty drawbacks to Reflex—it required top
physical conditioning to handle because it increased catabolism and metabolism
and left the user exhausted afterward; it caused nightmares; it was addictive.
Khadaji only used it when he was doing a particularly risky gambit. He would
pay for it later.

He checked the skinmask in the mirror, took his con-founder from the box and
snapped it into place on his belt. He took a deep breath and nodded at his
image. There was one last item: a photon flare. He hooked it onto his belt. He
was ready.

His shoulders brushed the flexmac lining the walls of the tunnel as he crawled
through it. Carefully, he lifted the matched pad covering the tunnel mouth and
moved the expanded metal grate inside the transformer station. It was black
inside the cover, with only a thin pattern of streetlight showing through the
cooling slots next to the radiant fins over his head. He slid the spookeyes
down and clicked them on. The place lit up, in that eerie green of
multiply-augmented light. He replaced the pad and grate and stood quietly,
listening.

The first rush of Reflex vibrated through him, making him feel warm and
slightly itchy. He wanted to move, to run and dance and jump—that was the drug
singing to him, urging him to use his body, to do something—anything— fast and
hard. But he held still, listening. After a moment, he moved to a slot in the
door of the unit and peeped through it into the alley. Empty. No one home. He
clicked the spook-eyes off.