"Michael Swanwick - 'Hello,' said the Stick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

"Hello,” said the Stick
by Michael Swanwick
Arms races, by their nature, tend to escalate. But the biggest leaps aren't necessarily the most
dramatic....

“Hello,” said the stick.
The soldier stopped, and looked around. He did not touch the hilt of his sword, but he adjusted his
stance so he could reach it quickly, if need be. But there was nothing to be seen. The moors stretched flat
and empty for miles about. “Who said that?”
“I did. Down here.”
“Ah. I see.” The soldier poked gingerly at the stick with his foot. “Some sort of radio device, eh? I've
heard of such. Where are you speaking from?”
“I'm right here. The stick. I'm from off-planet. They can make things like me there.”
“Can they, now? Well that's interesting, I suppose.”
“Pick me up,” said the stick. “Take me with you.”
“Why?”
“Because I make an excellent weapon.”
“No, I mean what's in it for you?”
The stick paused. “You're smarter than you look.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“OK, here's the deal. I'm a symbiotic mechanism. I was designed to be totally helpless without a
human partner. Pick me up, throw an acorn in the air, take a swing at it, and I can shift my weight so you
hit it a country mile. Leave me here and I can't budge an inch.”
“Why would they build you like that?”
“So I'd be a good and faithful tool. And I will. I'll be the best quarterstaff you ever had. Try me and
see.”
“How do I know you won't take over my brain?” the soldier asked suspiciously. “I've heard offworld
wizards can make devices that do things like that.”
“They're called technicians, not wizards. And that sort of technology is strictly prohibited on planetary
surfaces. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Even so ... it's nothing I'd want to chance.”
The stick sighed. “Tell me something. What's your rank? Are you a general? A field commander?”
“Tramping alone across the moors like this? Naw, I'm just a gallowglass-a mercenary and a foot
soldier.”
“Then what have you got to lose?”
The soldier laughed aloud. He bent to pick up the stick. Then he put it down again. Then he picked it
up.
“See?”
“Well, I don't mind telling you that takes a weight off my mind.”
“I could use a change of scenery. Let's go. We can talk along the way.” The soldier resumed his
stroll down the dirt track. He swung the stick lightly back and forth before him, admiring how it lopped
off the heads of thistles, while deftly sidestepping the sedge-roses. “So you're off to join the Iron Duke in
his siege of Port Morningstar, are you?” the stick remarked conversationally.
“How'd you know that?”
“Oh, one hears things, being a stick. Fly on the wall, and all that.”
“It's an unfamiliar figure of speech, but I catch your meaning. Who do you think's going to win? The
Iron Duke or the Council of Seven?”
“It's a close thing, by all accounts. But the Iron Duke has the advantage of numbers. That always
counts for something. If I had to bet money, I'd say you chose employers well.”
“That's good. I like being on the winning side. Less chance of dying, for one thing.”