"Richard Paul Russo - Rosetta Codex" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russo Richard Paul)

rock in striated reds and yellows rose up to meet them, mercifully flat and even. Mere seconds before
impact, the ground opened up and became a narrow and jagged ravine. The Kestrel bucked violently
twice and then dropped into it. Sidonie cursed and pulled at the controls. Cale’s stomach lurched as
a pocket downdraft hammered the wing-jet to the earth and they were both thrown forward against their
harnesses as the Kestrel tore along the bottom of the ravine. Cale cried out, metal squealed, objects
crashed and shattered, the straps cut into his skin, something crushed away his breath, and his vision
silvered. . . . The pilot’s chair broke free and tumbled past him, Sidonie screamed, the fingers of one
hand scraped Cale’s face as he spastically reached out for her. Everything slammed to a halt, silver
went dark, and he blacked out.



They came over the ragged rise, boots scraping rock and scrub as they shuffled their feet. They
numbered seven—five bearded men and two women—and the sky above them was a bright pale blue
with blossoming white clouds. The hot and gold sun beat down on them, baked the earth beneath them.

The lead man saw the wreckage, stumbled, then halted, holding up a hand. Charred and smoking metal
lay scattered along the ravine, with the largest section wedged between a cracked boulder and an
uprooted tree. He worked his way carefully down the unstable slope, and the others followed.

Cale watched them approach, standing shaky and nauseated and stunned amid shattered steelglass and
crumpled flooring, no memory of getting out of his seat. Blood ran from two gashes in his forehead and
he blinked at the men and women; he opened his mouth, but closed it again without making a sound.
Sidonie was only semiconscious behind him. She was covered in blood streaked with viscous black
fluids, and she moaned, eyelids fluttering like the wings of a dying insect.

The men carefully pulled him out of the wreckage, freeing him from a tangle of blue fabric bands that
clung to his skin and clothes, and gave him into the care of the two women. Then they cut the fabric
bands from Sidonie and dragged her carelessly across jagged metal, ignoring her cries as they scraped
fresh wounds across her side and legs. They laid her out on the ground beside the torn and twisted
wreck.

Discussion ensued over what to do with the wreckage. Cale listened intently, as if their decision was
important. One of the men suggested they tie ropes to the main section of the wreckage and drag it back
to the village. The others looked at him, spat, and laughed. Another suggested they torch it. The leader
finally decided—they would shuttle back and forth over the coming weeks, routing by on their
scavenging runs, and take whatever was useful back to the village a little bit at a time.

As Cale watched from between the two women, who held him in place, the men gathered around
Sidonie. They dragged her down the scraggy ravine until they came to a flatter section of earth sparsely
covered with grasses. For a minute or so they stood wordlessly over her, looking down at her motionless
form, then they stripped off her clothes, tossing them into the dirt as if she would never have use for them
again.

The men then lay atop Sidonie, humped and thrashed against her, one after another. One of the women
dug her fingers deeper into Cale’s shoulder, holding him back. At first Sidonie’s semiconscious
cries intensified, and her hands and arms flailed weakly, uselessly. But it wasn’t long before she
stopped moving; soon after that, a final wheezing gasp broke weakly from between her lips; then the only
sounds were the grunts and coughing sounds made by the men.