"W. T. Quick - Singularities" - читать интересную книгу автора (Quick W T)

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Singularities
by W. T. Quick
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Copyright (c)1990 by W. T. Quick


_For Dick Sanders_
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*Chapter One*
The assassin came down the side of the mountain a few minutes after sunset. He was a short, compact man dressed in black. His
face was covered with glare-suppressant grease, except for his eyes. His eyes were blank, dark circles, light-gathering inserts which
made his night vision almost as good as day.
He had left his shadow glider near the top of the mountain. It had been a tricky flight in, buffeted by uncertain winds and sudden
updrafts, and for a few moments he'd worried about the house radars picking him out against the general clutter of the neighborhood.
They'd told him the glider was stealthed, proofed against casual radar observation, but long experience had taught him not to trust the
experts with everything. Particularly not with his own life.
The landing had gone without incident. He'd activated the tiny capsule of tailored carbon-phage bacteria incorporated in the
feather-light main spar of the almost weightless craft and, within moments, the butterfly wings had begun to dissolve. Now nothing
remained to mark his arrival but a faint dusting of black grains across a thick layer of brown leaves.
He pulled up just before the tree line, where the forest of pine and oak stopped abruptly. Down below a few cattle grazed
peacefully in a broad field, brightly silhouetted in the strangely sharp light of emerging stars. Beyond the cattle was a low wall and
beyond that, the stark, Oriental plantings which surrounded a wide rock garden.
He hunkered down and scanned the back of the house which abutted the rock garden. A wooden patio ran the entire length of
the very large house. Clumps of outdoor furniture dotted the patio, shaded by brightly colored umbrellas which proclaimed Cinzano and
OptiTek and Coca-Cola in heavy luminescent strokes. Along much of the patio were tall glass doors divided by intricate wooden
traceries, but the doors were shielded by thick curtains. Only here and there could he see faint yellow lines of light. It was late, but
someone inside was still awake. The assassin sighed and settled back, concealing himself beneath a rank growth of some kind of
flowering bush. He could smell the heavy odor of the blossoms on the chill night air. It reminded him of home.
Of course the inhabitants of the house were awake, he told himself. They were at war, just as he was. He suspected his chances
of carrying out his mission were slim. His target was well guarded. The assassin was mildly surprised he'd made it this far. Perhaps the
security here was not as good as he'd been told, although, in war, the first rule was that everything went wrong. Sometimes it went
wrong for the enemy as well.
Whatever the reason, he'd managed to penetrate this far. His briefings had been explicit -- watch and wait. The target always
comes to his patio in the morning, to sit and meditate on the silence of his rock garden. That would be the time to take him.
Stupid, he thought. If you are a potential target, habit becomes a liability. Never do the same things in the same way at the same
time. Predictability is the key to death.
Perhaps this man feels safe, he thought. A man often feels safe at home. That is why so many men die there.
The assassin closed his eyes. Morning would come soon enough. The sharp-edged bulk of a Little Man rocket launcher, only
twenty inches long, scraped against his fabric-clad thigh. He moved slightly to arrange the weapon more comfortably. It was a joke, of
course. He liked that kind of humor. The Little Man was manufactured by TriDiCon, an arms maker which was a subsidiary of
TechSYSTEM, which was itself wholly owned by Nakamura-Norton. And the man down below who would come to meditate on the
gray morning light of his garden, if the spies were to be believed, was Shigeinari Nakamura. If this all came to pass, then Shag
Nakamura would die by his own weapon and that, the assassin told himself, was a great joke. Such a success would please his
ancestors and his Temple. He wondered if Nakamura would enjoy a joke like that.
Probably. Some things were universal.
He opened his eyes and stared at the stars overhead. A faint breeze crept around the mountain and rustled the fragrant branches
of the shrub which concealed him. Only a little more time. He muttered a short prayer to his own personal war god. That was a joke