"S. M. Stirling - Draka 01 - Marching Through Georgia" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

this was going to be much worse than Sicily, and that had been
deep-shit enough. Still, there had been good parts. The Italians
really had some pretty things, and the paratroops got the first
pick. That jewelry from the bishop's palace in Palermo was
absolutely divine! And the tapestry… she sighed and smiled, in
reminiscence. There had been leave, too—empty space on
transport airships heading south, if you knew the right people. It
was good to be able to peacock a little—do some parrying, with a
new campaign ribbon and the glamour of victory, and some
pretties to show off.

Her smile grew smug. She had been very popular, with all the
sexes and their permutations; a change from ugly-duckling
adolescence. Men are nice, definitely, she thought. Pity I had to
wait 'til I reported to boot camp to start in on 'em.

That was the other thing about the Army; it was better than
school. Draka schooling was sex-segregated, on the theory that
youth should not be distracted from learning and their
premilitary training. Either that or sheer conservatism. Eight
months of the year spent isolated in the countryside: from five to
eighteen it had been her life, and the last few years had been
growing harder to take. She was glad to be out of it, the endless
round of gymnastics and classes and petty feuds and crushes; the
Army was tougher, paratroop school more so, but what you did
off duty was your own business. It was good to be an adult, free.

Even the winter in Mosul had been all right. The town was a
hole, of course—provincial, and all new since the Draka conquest
in 1916. Nothing like the mellow beauty of Capetown, with its
theaters and concerts and famous nightspots… Mosul—well,
what could you expect of a place whose main claim to fame was
petrochemical plants? They'd been up in the mountains most of
the time, training hard. She flexed her shoulders and neck
complacently. She'd thought herself fit before, but four months
of climbing under full load and wrestling equipment over
boulders had taken the last traces of puppy fat off and left her
with what her people considered the ideal feminine figure—sleek,
compactly curved, strong, and quick.

Sofie glanced sidelong at her commander; she thought he'd
been noticing, since she qualified for comtech. Couldn't tell,
though; he was one for keeping to himself. Just visited the
officer's Rest Center every week or so. But a man like that
wouldn't be satisfied with serf girls; he'd want someone he could
talk to…

Or maybe it's my face? she thought worriedly, absently
stripping the clip out of the pistol-grip well of her machinepistol
and inserting it again. It was still obstinately round and