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

from the halo."
"Disclose all our confidential practices while you're at it, Mirsky," Seven said.
She glared at him through her visor. "Veda would have figured it out."
"We'll never know now, will we?"
"What does it matter?" she said. "Gonna kill them anyway, aren't you?"
Seven flashed an arc of teeth filed to points and waved a hand towards the female pirate. "Allow
me to introduce Mirsky, our loose-tongued but efficient information retrieval specialist. She's going
to take you on a little trip down memory lane; see if we can't remember those access codes."
"What codes?"
"It'll come back to you," Seven said.
They were taken through the tunnels, past half-assembled mining machines, onto the surface and
then into the pirate ship. The ship was huge: most of it living space. Cramped corridors snaked
through hydroponics galleries of spring wheat and dwarf papaya, strung with xenon lights. The ship
hummed constantly with carbon dioxide scrubbers, the fetid air making Irravel sneeze. There were
children everywhere, frowning at the captives. The pirates obviously had no reefersleep technology:
they stayed warm the whole time, and some of the children Irravel saw had probably been born after
the Hirondelle had arrived here.
They arrived at a pair of interrogation rooms where they were separated. Irravel's room held a
couch converted from an old command seat, still carrying warning decals. A console stood in one
corner. Painted torture scenes fought for wallspace with racks of surgical equipment; drills, blades
and ratcheted contraptions speckled with rust.
Irravel breathed deeply. Hyperventilation could have an anaesthetic effect. Her conditioning
would in any case create a state of detachment: the pain would be no less intense, but she would feel
it at one remove.
She hoped.
The pirates fiddled with her suit, confused by the modern design, until they stripped her down to
her shipboard uniform. Mirsky leant over her. She was small-boned and dark skinned, dirty hair
rising in a topknot, eyes mismatched shades of azure. Something clung to the side of her head above
the left ear; a silver box with winking status lights. She fixed a crown to Irravel's head, then made
adjustments on the console.
"Decided yet?" Captain Run Seven said, sauntering into the room. He was unlatching his helmet.
"What?"
"Which of our portfolio of interrogation packages you're going to opt for."
She was looking at his face now. It wasn't really human. Seven had man's bulk and shape, but
there was at least as much of the pig in his face. His nose was a snout, his ears two tapered flaps
framing a hairless pink skull. Pale eyes evinced animal cunning.
"What the hell are you?"
"Excellent question," Seven said, clicking a finger in her direction. His bare hand was dark
skinned and feminine. "To be honest, I don't really know. A genetics experiment, perhaps? Was I
the seventh failure, or the first success?"
"Are you sure you want an honest answer on that?"
He ignored her. "All I know is that I've been here -- in the halo around Luyten 726-8 -- for as
long as I can remember."
"Someone sent you here?"
"In a tiny automated spacecraft; perhaps an old lifepod. The ship's governing personality raised
me as well as it could; attempted to make of me a well-rounded individual." Seven trailed off
momentarily. "Eventually I was found by a passing ship. I staged what might be termed a hostile
takeover bid. From then on I've had an organization largely recruited from my client base."
"You're insane. It might have worked once, but it won't work with us."
"Why should you be any different?"