"Alastair Reynolds - Great Wall Of Mars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Alastair)

“You’ve tolerated her attempts so far,” Voi said. “And each time you’ve successfully destroyed
her ship with all the people in it. The net risk of a successful break out hasn’t increased. So why
retaliate now?”

“It’s very simple. After each violation we issued Galiana with a stronger warning than the one
before. Our last was absolute and final.”

“You’ll be in violation of treaty if you attack.”

Warren’s smile was one of quiet triumph. “Not quite, Sandra. You may not be completely
conversant with the treaty’s fine print, but we’ve discovered that it allows us to storm Galiana’s
nest without breaking any terms. The technical phrase is a police action, I believe.”

Clavain saw that Voi was momentarily lost for words. That was hardly surprising. The treaty
between the Coalition and the Conjoiners—which Voi’s neutral Demarchists had helped draft—
was the longest document in existence, apart from some obscure, computer-generated
mathematical proofs. It was supposed to be watertight, though only machines had ever read it
from beginning to end, and only machines had ever stood a chance of finding the kind of
loophole which Warren was now brandishing.

“No…” she said. “There’s some mistake.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Clavain said. “I’ve seen the natural-language summaries, and there’s no
doubt about the legality of a police action. But it needn’t come to that. I’m sure I can persuade
Galiana not to make another escape attempt.”

“But if we should fail?” Voi looked at Warren now. “Nevil and myself could still be on Mars in
three days.”

“Don’t be, is my advice.”

Disgusted, Voi turned and stepped into the green cool of the shuttle. Clavain was left alone with
his brother for a moment. Warren fingered the leathery patch over his ruined eye with the chrome
gauntlet of his prosthetic arm, as if to remind Clavain of what the war had cost him; how little
love he had for the enemy, even now.
“We haven’t got a chance of succeeding, have we?” Clavain said. “We’re only going down there
so you can say you explored all avenues of negotiation before sending in the troops. You actually
want another damned war.”

“Don’t be so defeatist,” Warren said, shaking his head sadly, forever the older brother
disappointed at his sibling’s failings. “It really doesn’t become you.”

“It’s not me who’s defeatist,” Clavain said.

“No; of course not. Just do your best, little brother.”

Warren extended his hand for his brother to shake. Hesitating, Clavain looked again into his
brother’s good eye. What he saw there was an interrogator’s eye: as pale, colorless and cold as a
midwinter sun. There was hatred in it. Warren despised Clavain’s pacifism; Clavain’s belief that
any kind of peace, even a peace which consisted only of stumbling episodes of mistrust between