"Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

wearing out with age and disuse, or was there something suppressing it? He had no idea, and no way to
tell. He didn't even understand the mechanism whereby his supercompetent specialized schizoid
personalities took over in the first place.
He lay quiet, thinking about his situation without reaching any sort of conclusion; his captive shifted
occasionally, trying to get comfortable. Several long minutes passed; with a brief warning, the computer
slipped below the horizon and out of contact again.

There was a sudden pounding on the door; he lay still, his hand tight on the girl's mouth.

The pounding stopped, and he heard the sound of a key turning.

That wasn't right; the key was on the inside of the door, still in the lock. He'd used it and left it there
himself. It couldn't be a duplicate key, as that would have pushed the one on the inside out, and he would
have heard it hit the floor. Could it be a different door? No, it was from the direction of the door he had
entered by.

Keeping one hand on the girl, he lifted himself up and back, and peered around the torn bed curtain at
the door.

The key was turning itself in the lock; as he watched it completed its turn, the lock opening with a click.
The key then lifted itself from the keyhole and dropped to the floor.

He didn't need the computer to tell him that this was more antigravity magic. He leaped to his feet, his
automatic combat persona taking over, the snark in his hand. His conscious self, which was now a
passive observer, asked whether taking the young woman hostage would be a viable tactic; he thought
back that he didn't know, having no idea how much respect the people of this society had for individual
lives.

He flashed across the room, snatching up the submachine gun at the same instant that he fired the snark at
the door and put enough distance between the girl and himself to minimize the risk of her interference with
his actions.

The panels of the door vanished in a cloud of brown powder; the range was close to the maximum, so
that the beam did not penetrate, completely, leaving a large oval scar of rough raw wood. The drifting
dust served to darken the already dim room still further, and Slant used the darkness to cover his
movements as he shifted his weapons between hands, so that the snark, strictly a short-range weapon
and with a severely limited power supply, was in his left, while the more primitive but effective
submachine gun was held ready in his right He released the gun's safety but did not fire; he had no idea
what he was up against, so it would be foolhardy to try shooting his way out immediately.

The darkness was abruptly dispelled by a vivid yellow glow from the door; it swung open, revealing a
black-robed figure holding a staff aloft. The light came from the head of the staff, and Slant felt an electric
tingle in his skin, identical to that he had felt in the Council chamber. Behind the wizard-—there could be
no doubt that this was a wizard— were three other men, clad like the Council chamber guard, holding
drawn swords.

Slant groped for the latch of the door he had not had time to investigate properly; he stood near it but
dared not turn his gaze from his foes to see what he was doing.

"Slant, as you call yourself," said the wizard, "please surrender. We wish you no harm. There is no need