"Alastair Reynolds - Galactic North" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Alastair)

again at the pattern of photons on her visor and then forced calm, telling herself it was another
mirage.
Except this time it stayed.

Markarian opened fire, squeezing rounds past the servitor. It lurched aside, a gaping hole in its
carapace. Black crabs came round the bend, encrusted with sensors and guns. The first reached the
ruined servitor and dismembered it with ease. If only there'd been time to activate and program the
greenfly machines -- they'd have ripped through the pirates like a host of furies, treating them as
terraformable matter.
And maybe us too, Irravel thought.
Something flashed through the clouds of steam; an electromagnetic pulse that turned Irravel's suit
sluggish, as if every joint had corroded. The whine of the circulator died to silence, leaving only her
frenzied breathing. Something pressed against her backpack. She turned slowly around, wary of
falling against the walls. There were crabs everywhere. The chamber in which they'd been cornered
was littered with the bodies of the other crew members; pink trail of blood on ice reaching from
other tunnels. They'd been killed and dragged here.
Two words jumped to mind: kill yourself. But first she had to kill Markarian, in case he lacked
the nerve himself. She couldn't see his face through his visor. That was good. Painfully, she pointed
the gun towards him and squeezed the trigger. But instead of firing, the gun shivered in her hands,
stowing itself into a quarter of its operational volume. "Thank you for using this weapon system," it
said cheerfully.
Irravel let it drift to the ground.
A new voice rasped in her helmet. "If you're thinking of surrendering, now might not be a bad
time."
"Bastard," Irravel said, softly.
"Really the best you can manage?" The language was Canasian -- what Irravel and Markarian
had spoken on Fand -- but heavily accented, as if the native tongue was Norte or Russish, or spoken
with an impediment. "Bastard's quite a compliment compared to some of things my clients come up
with."
"Give me time; I'll work on it."
"Positive attitude -- that's good." The lid of a crab hinged up, revealing the prone form of a man
in a mesh of motion-sensors. He crawled from the mesh and stepped onto the ice, wearing a
spacesuit formed from segmented metal plates. Totems had been welded to the armour, around
holographic starscapes infested with serpentine monsters and scantily-clad maidens.
"Who are you?"
"Captain Run Seven." He stepped closer, examining her suit nameplate. "But you can call me
Seven, Irravel Veda."
"I hope you burn in hell, Seven."
Seven smiled -- she could see the curve of his grin through his visor; the oddly upturned nostrils
of his nose above it. "I'm sensing some negativity here, Irravel. I think we need to put that behind
us, don't you?"
Irravel looked at her murdered adjutants. "Maybe if you tell me which one was the traitor."
"Traitor?"
"You seemed to have no difficulty finding us."
"Actually, you found us." It was a woman's voice this time. "We use lures -- tampering with
commercial beacons, like the scavenger's." She emerged from one of the other attack machines,
wearing a suit similar to Seven's, except that it displayed the testosterone-saturated male analogues
of his space-maidens; all rippling torsos and chromed codpieces.
"Wreckers," Irravel breathed.
"Yeah. Ships home in on the beacons, then find they ain't going anywhere in a hurry. We move in