"Charles Stross - Iron Sunrise" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

cheap third-person scripted arc-ventures; a product of a more sophisticated technosphere than Moscow's,
its muscles didn't run on anything as primitive as actin/myosin contraction, and its bones were built for
leverage—a hellhound running at full power hissed like a primitive locomotive, dissipating waste heat as
steam hot enough to scald anyone who got too close.

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 IRON SUNRISE - Charles Stross



She raised the riot cartridge, fingers tightening on the trigger switch, and pointed it at the doorway. Dim
shadow of legs, too many legs. They paused, and the shadow swung across the wall, homing in. She
squished down on the trigger and the canister kicked back at her hands as a terrible clatter rushed
towards her and the air in front turned black. No, blue: like the dead man's tongue, lying there. The
paper said all but one copy of the data cartridge containing the customs transfer log were to be
destroyed, and anyone who knew was to die. A tenuous aerogel foam bubbled and farted, rushing out
into a ballooning mass as the dog lunged forward, teeth snapping, making a soft growling sound deep in
its throat. It thumped against her feet in a soap-bubble cocoon, the growl turning into a deafening
moaning howl of frustration.
Shuddering, Wednesday shuffled backward, pushing the heavy desk over as she stood up. She looked
around wildly. The dog's hind legs scrabbled at the floor, driving it after her. She could see a glow of
rage in its eyes as it struggled with the sticky antipersonnel foam. "Good doggie," she said vacuously,
backing away, wondering inanely if she should hit it. But no, if a hellhound thought you had won, it
would blow itself up, wouldn't it? They always did that in the arc-ventures—
Something cold and wet stubbed itself against the back of her neck, and snuffled damply. She sagged,
her knees and stomach turning to sacks of ice water; paw-fingers like bone clamped tight on her
shoulders, holding her upright. Her eyelid monitor flickered, then died as the lights came up. The hound
on the floor seemed to grin up at her—no, past her. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly human, a
deep gravelly growl converging from three directions. "Victoria Strowger, this is emergency police pack
four-alpha. By order of Captain Mannheim, superintending evacuation process for Old Newfoundland,
we are placing you under arrest. You will return with us to the main hub traffic bay to await uplift. I
must caution you that any resistance you offer may be dealt with using weapons of nonlethal intent.
Running back aboard this habitat was a senseless waste of police time." Two of the voices fell silent, but
a third continued: "And while we're about it, why were you running away?"


IMPACT: T plus 1392 days, 12 hours, 38 minutes
Twenty-two minutes past departure time and the dogs had rounded up the last stray lamb, herding her
into the service lock. Captain Mannheim had other things to worry about this instant, like topping off the
number four tank and making sure Misha vented the surplus ullage pressure and kept the flow
temperature within good limits. Then he was going to run the launch plan and get the hell out of this
ghost system before the storm front blew in, and once clear he'd have it out with the guard dogs. (And
why had they let some interfering punk kid sneak around the service core in the first place?) And then …

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 IRON SUNRISE - Charles Stross


Twenty-two minutes! More than a thousand seconds overdue! There was room for slippage on the
critical path—nobody would be insane enough not to make some allowances—but with five thousand