"R. Garcia y Robertson - Teen Angel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

stepping over the bodies of strangers and schoolmates, finding her a seat on a
shuttle bound for orbit--bumping off a huge, heavily armed felon with hideous
tattoos and a horrendous price on his head. Justice was closing in, and slavers were
in a mad scramble to board, facing automatic death sentences if they failed. Slaving
was the only capital offense left on New Harmony--since the King taught mercy and
tolerance, not total suicide. Yet the fleeing raiders cheerfully made room for her,
talking softly and trying not to scare her. All the way into orbit, a tattooed killer held
Deirdre’s hand, telling her not to be afraid as they left home far behind.
That was when she was twelve. Slavers saw that she grew even more
beautiful, blossoming into a radiant young woman under strict diet and constant
exercise, with biosculpt ridding her of any incipient blemish. At eighteen she was
stunning, which made the hateful looks from the Fafnir’s crew all the more
appalling.
Worse yet, Deirdre knew it was true. She was the Angel of Death, for them
and for her. Konar would not have brought her aboard unless he meant to die. If
Konar thought he could win the upcoming fight, he would have left her on Hades,
which was honeycombed with blast shelters and secret bunkers dug by slavers over
the centuries. Bringing her aboard was as good as saying there were no safe refuges,
and this was the last fight. Konar would never leave his flagship alive, and had
brought his sex toy aboard to die with him.
Her stomach heaved as she entered the starboard lift, and slavers hurriedly got
out, leaving it to her and the SuperCats. Recycled air reeked of sweat, fear, and
synthetic sealants. She ignored the hostile looks, knowing it was not her they hated,
just what she represented--the ghastly fate hanging over them all. Nuclear annihilation
was about the nicest future they could anticipate. Or explosive decompression.
Doors dilated for her. Tubes and ducts snaked overhead. Fafnir began life as
the high-g survey ship Endurance, but slavers had taken her on her maiden voyage,
turning her into a warship, with blast shields and armored bulkheads, stripping and
reinforcing the hull, making Fafnir stronger, faster, more focused to a task,
ruthlessly discarding whatever they did not want. Not unlike what they did to
Deirdre.
Commander Hess of the Hiryu greeted her on A-deck; dark eyed,
black-haired, and alert, he wore his dress uniform thrown open to show the flying
dragon tattoo curled round his left nipple. Too professional to display fear, Hess
bowed neatly, with a flick of his black curls, and a curt click of his heels. “If my lady
will follow me.” He showed the way with his palm.
“How goes the Hiryu?” This was a silly stab at making conversation, since all
of Konar’s ships were surely doomed.
“Could not be better,” Hess lied casually. Things could hardly be worse, with
Navy cruisers headed insystem, slowing from near light speed. Hiryu faced a losing
battle along with the rest of Konar’s little fleet, but the one nice thing about Hess was
that he never deigned to show his feelings. Deirdre appreciated this reticence, since
Commander Hess’s inner workings sickened her. Physically. Being this close to
Hess made her want to barf up her gourmet lunch.
Her quarters had a hemispherical pressure hatch, a sad indication that
someone thought the main pressure would fail. The slaver on duty gulped at seeing
her, asking Hess, “Is she wired?”
Hess nodded curtly. By now Deirdre was used to being discussed in third
person. “Where’s her remote?” the guard demanded. Hess gave him a
“where-do-you-think” look, and the slaver shut up. Dismissing the SuperCats, Hess