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

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They'd progressed several miles across the moors when the Sun began to set. The soldier laid the
stick aside and set a snare for supper. By the time he'd pitched a tent, made camp, and cut peat for a
fire, he'd caught a rabbit. He roasted it slow and, because he had a fondness for drumsticks, ate all six
legs first, along with three small bunyips, boiled with a pinch of salt from a tin. Like many an old
campaigner, he ate in silence, giving the food his undivided attention.
“Well,” he said when he was full and in the mood for conversation again. “What were you doing out
here in the middle of this godforsaken wilderness?”
The stick had been stuck into the earth on the opposite side of the campfire, so that it stood upright.
“I was dropped by a soldier,” it said, “much like yourself. He was in pretty bad shape at the time. I doubt
he's still alive.”
The soldier frowned. “You're not exactly standard gear.”
“No, I'm not. By compact, planetside wars are fought with primitive weaponry. It was found that
wars were almost as environmentally destructive as the internal combustion engine. So...”
“Internal combustion engine?”
“Never mind. It's complicated. The point I was trying to make, though, is that the technology is there,
even if it's not supposed to be used. So they cheat. Your side, the other side. Everybody cheats.”
“How so?” “That sword of yours, for example. Take it out, let's get a look at it.”
He drew the sword. Firelight glimmered across its surface.
“Tungsten-ceramic-titanium alloy. Self-sharpening, never rusts. You could slam it against a granite
boulder and it wouldn't break. Am I right?”
“It's a good blade. I couldn't say what it was made of.”
“Trust me on this one.”
“Still ... you're a lot fancier than this old sword of mine. It can't talk, for one thing.”
“It's possible,” said the stick, “that the Council of Seven is, out of desperation, pushing the envelope
a little, these days.”
“Now that's a figure of speech I've neither heard before nor can comprehend.”
“It means simply that it's likely they're using weapons rather more sophisticated than is strictly
speaking allowed by the Covenants of Warfare. There's a lot riding on this siege. The Iron Duke has put
everything he has into it. If he were defeated, then the worst the Council of Seven could expect would be
sanctions and a fine. So long as they don't use tac-nukes or self reprogramming viruses, the powers that
be won't invoke their right to invade.”
“Tac-nukes or self-reprogramming viruses?”
“Again, it's complicated. But I see you're yawning. Why don't you bank the fire and turn in? Get
some sleep,” said the stick. “We can talk more in the morning.”
***
But in the morning, the soldier didn't feel much like talking. He packed his gear, shouldered the stick,
and set off down the road with far less vigor than he had the day before. On this, the stick did not
comment.
At noon, the soldier stopped for lunch. He let his pack slip from his shoulders and leaned the stick
against it. Then he rummaged within for the left-over rabbit, only to make a face and thrust it away from
him. “Phaw!” he said. “I cannot remember when I felt so weak! I must be coming down with
something.”
“Do you think so?” the stick asked.
“Aye. And I'm nauseated, and I've got the sweats as well.”
The soldier wiped his forehead with his hand. It came back bloody.
"Chort!" he swore. “What's wrong with me?” “Radiation poisoning, I expect. I operate off a
plutonium battery.”
“It's ... you ... You knew this would happen to me.” Unsteadily, he stood, and drew his sword. He
struck at the stick with all his might. Sparks flew, but it was not damaged. Again and again he struck, until