"Mary Rosenblum - Splinters of Glass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenblum Mary)

The edge of the board caught her high in the chest with the sound of an ice ax
hitting sludge ice. She flew backward in Europa’s minimal G, hitting the wall, sliding
along it for meters.

Leaving streaks and flecks of blood. Qai kicked the board into a hard brake,
leaped over the skidding sled as it banged into the wall, and skimmed down the
corridor in long, flat strides, slamming both palms into the wall to kill his momentum
as he reached her, dropping to his knees.

She breathed. Qai let his breath out in a rush even as his fingers probed gently,
feeling for the grate of broken bones, wincing at the instant swell-ing where the sled
had struck her, above her small, flat breasts. She had cut her scalp right at the
hairline when she hit the wall, and blood gleamed on her face, purplish in the
moss-light. Her left collarbone had broken. He felt the small irregularity, checked her
shoulders, arms. Didn’t find any other breaks, just cuts and scrapes from the rough
ice of the wall. Chewing his lip, he rocked back on his heels, thinking hard. As a
visitor with a visa chip, she’d get care in the Ice Palace, at the visitors’ enclave. But
if he brought her there, they’d detain him until she regained consciousness. Just in
case he himself had assaulted her or she wanted to press charges. Tourism brought
in precious credit and tourists were highly protected. Moss miners were not.

He checked her pulse again. He could leave her here and someone would find
her. What she would say about the accident, he didn’t know. It would be enough.

As Qai started to stand, a flicker of motion at the far reaches of his vision
caught his eye, a shadowy figure, nearly invisible in the dim moss-glow. He
recognized matted gray hair and the hood of a ragged tunic. The sweeper. From
Karina’s plaza.

They had followed her, had been working hard while she slept her way up
from the platforms, in hibernation in her shielded cocoon. Probabilities spun through
his head. If he was accused of killing a tourist, the Ice Palace would sic all of
Security on him. They’d start with Karina because too many people knew about
them.

Their methods were... efficient.

Karina wouldn’t know enough to survive the questioning, he guessed. Even as
these conclusions clicked into place, he was heaving Gerta’s uncon-scious body
onto the sled, securing it with a spare cargo net, arranging her arm so that the
collarbone wouldn’t take too much stress. Leaping onto his idling board, he toed it
into motion, then kicked up the speed. Leaning for-ward, frigid corridor air whipping
tears into his eyes, he fought the erratic tug of the overloaded sled as it tried to pull
him into the wall. He didn’t dare slow down. The sweeper wouldn’t be working
alone. He’d have someone on a board. And they’d be armed. They had the power
behind them to bring a weapon onto the Snow Queen and get away with it.

He passed a narrow natural ice-crevice patched with yellow moss, began
counting as another crevice flashed past on his right. Four... five... he caught a faint
whiff of sulfur and moisture, risked a nanosecond glance behind, saw nothing. He’d