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

fired for a solid hour before. Sometime during that period, a supply robot had
issued him a new weapon; dozens of the anodized aluminum dins ran back and
forth behind the line, dropping new belts of loaded magazines and replacing
burned-out weapons, so the firepower would not slacken.

And still they came. There must be millions of them, he had never seen so many
people in one place, all moving with such singleness of purpose. They weren't
even armed! The dead were piled into mounds of warm flesh, there had to be two
or three hundred thousand of them covering the field, withering lower under
the explosive spray of a ten kay at full throttle.

Why? Why did they walk into certain death, never pausing?

His weapon clicked dry. Mechanically, he turned, squatted, and reloaded. The
machinery of his carbine whined again, telling him it was ready.

Why are we killing these people?

Khadaji stared at his weapon. The barrel was hot, smoke rose from it in thin
tendrils into the cooler air. The weapon seemed alien, suddenly, a strange
instrument whose function he couldn't understand. The gravity was a standard
gee, the air carried enough oxy, but this was not his world. The bright yellow
sun was hotter than his own; the smells of planet Maro were different from
those of San Yubi. Ten thousand of the Confederation's finest had been bent
here, to spend ammunition and time target shooting.

No. Those weren't targets out there. He was shooting people, people who
laughed and cried and ate and fucked and he was killing them. In the name of
any god which might have ever existed, why? What could justify that? What had
they done to deserve to die? Because they opposed the confed? Because the
confed wanted order on this world? It was insane!

"Khadaji, what's up? Your weapon jammed?"

The voice of the centplex's commander, Lojtnant Hogan, blared from the
transceiver over Khadaji's left ear.

"Jammed?" The word was as meaningless as the chunk of deadly plastic, spun
crystal and metal that he held.

But the Lojt misunderstood. "Supply is on the way. Hold on for a minute."

Khadaji became aware of his breathing. The damped noise of the constant firing
faded from his consciousness; the yelling of the- troopers dwindled, the
screams of the dying trailed off, and all he could hear was his own breathing.
In, out, a little hoarse, but it was steady. His heartbeat was slow, a gently
throb under his skin. He felt as if he'd been wrapped in a thick blanket, he
was warm, comfortable and alone. He stood slowly and turned yet slower, to
look at the sea of dead and about-to-be-dead.
Why?