"John Ringo - The Legacy of the Aldenata 6 - Cally's War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

side of his muzzle, just below the top of his whiskers. With effort, he resisted twitching
them. Or squinting his eyes. Decreases in light tended to cause the slit-pupils to round
noticeably, making even a slight squint more pronounced than it would have appeared in
a round-pupilled being.
"Your parameters fail to take account of recent evidence of active hostile human
resistance." The one thing he could admire about the older Darhel lord was his control
over his expressions and gestures. The humans had an oddly apt expression for such
control. A poker face. They used it to describe a game. One of the few personal
interactions he chose to engage in with humans was an occasional evening playing this
poker game that the human Worth and a couple of his underlings had taught him. The
contact was annoying, but you could actually win money at this game, and he regularly
did, which the Tir found fascinating enough to outweigh the disadvantages.
"Because plans are already in motion to bring that small detail back in line with
optimum management conditions." How could the aging obstacle know that? Was it
possible that his own communications were less secure than he had believed? It bore
investigation.
"I also note that hazard loss of human colonists is highly selective in its action."
There had been a slight emphasis on the word "selective." Impossible to tell if it was faint
praise or criticism.
"Yes. It allows us to optimize our profits from the remaining colonists." He had to
resist the urge to preen, or the closest Darhel equivalent, which was not a social display,
but was instead more a personal expression of satisfaction with one's own
accomplishment. His superior was doing his usual exemplary job of appearing
unimpressed.
"It is good to know you continue in your usual exceptional standards of job
performance, Tir." The flash of rows of razor-sharp pointed teeth, in a very brief display
of that copied human expression, the grin, almost caused a slight shudder. But, really, the
old fool was just trying to put a brave face on the hunt breathing down his neck. Age was
beginning to rob his vigor, would soon take his wit, and ultimately his life.
This time, the Tir could not quite resist the urge to preen.
 Chapter One

Chicago, Friday, May 10, 2047
His favorite sports bar in Chicago had taken an old prewar rectangular middle-of-the-
room bar and replaced the central island of glassware, bartender, and drinks with a large
holotank. Unusually for a bar, smoking was absolutely forbidden, as the wafting smoke
tended to interfere with the image display. The surround sound was practically perfect,
and the waiters and waitresses who delivered the drinks from a traditional bar retrofitted
next to the kitchen took extra care to take patrons' orders discreetly so as not to interfere
with the game. Instead of the more usual stale smoke, this bar smelled of a mixture of
beer, fried food, and the lemon oil the staff used to keep the bar top polished to a high
gloss. He seldom came here, because a man in his business needed to avoid patterns.
Nevertheless, it was his favorite watering hole, to the point that he probably came here
slightly more often than he ought.
Charles Worth liked hockey. It wasn't so much the violence when a fight broke out.
Primal violence was old hat in his line of work. What he liked was the fast pace, the sheer
competitive artistry of it. Hockey was a real guy's game with real music to back it up, not
some tin-horned pep bands. No cheerleaders, but he considered himself something of a
connoisseur of women, and he definitely preferred his women close enough to touch. He
preferred the original, the genuine, the unusual, provided she was also beautiful. The