"S. M. Stirling - Draka 04 - Drakon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

had kept anything too obvious from happening. The potential of the molehole projects . . . was that worth
the risk of direct action to the enemy?

Certainly. A functioning macrocosmic molehole would break the long stalemate. The Final War
might well turn out to be less final than they'd thought.

"Service to the State," she said, in the old formal mode.

He saluted, fist to chest. "Glory to the Race."

Silence fell on the villa, unbroken save for the breathing of her ghouloon in its quarters at the back;
the courier must have brought it in. The transgene was asleep, but its senses were just as keen as hers, and
it would wake in the extremely unlikely event of intruders. Gwen slipped the plaque into the receptor of a
pocket reader; it extended a thin diadem that she dropped over her head to rest on her brows. She lay down
on a couch in the lounging room and thought at her transducer:

begin.

***

She came aware and blinked, lifting the circlet from her brow. The data was there, downlinked in
instants; the hours since had been spent organizing and assimilating it. The process was far from complete,
but well begun. Hunger and stiffness had roused her, and the sound of the ghouloon padding in. Her mind
felt overcrammed and bloated, like a stomach after a too-heavy meal.

The room was not dark to Gwen, not to eyes that could rival a cat's, and see into the infrared as
well. The guardbeast rose from all fours, one hand pointing to the door; somebody was approaching. A
silent snarl lifted teeth from its muzzle. Ghouloons were an early experiment, the first of the sentient
transgenes. Basically a giant Gelada baboon, with material from certain breeds of dog, from the hunting
cats, and from human stock for intelligence, vocal cords, and a fully opposable thumb. They made superb
guardians and hunt-servants, although not bright enough to operate any but the simplest machines. Crude
work by current standards, but still occasionally useful.

She listened herself, drew air through her nostrils, stretched. "No, I think I know who that is,
Wulka," she said quietly. "Go back to your room."

Gwen slipped out of the blacks and underclothes and walked to the door. The villa lights came up
around her automatically. The door was carved wood on hinges, local handicrafts. Tomin and Mala stood
outside, bearing a bottle of wine and a hamper that smelled of food. The adolescents were wearing flower
wreaths in their pale hair, and nothing else.

"We—" they began.

"I know," Gwen said, laying a finger across each pair of lips.

She savored their scent, a slight tang of apprehension and a rising involuntary excitement as they
responded to her pheromones. Those strengthened in their turn as she relaxed conscious control and let her
arousal blossom. Her hands trailed down to rest over their hearts, a pleasant contrast of hard curve and
soft, with the same quickening beat beneath both. Their flushed and bright-eyed smiles answered her
heavy-lidded one. It was a feedback cycle, self-reinforcing for all three. This should be a rare and