"Williams,.Walter.Jon.-.Hardwired" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)
It's a forest of rectennas, miles wide, receiving the lowenergy microwave coming down from a solar power-satellite high above, a burning fixed star in the heavens that symbolizes the prostrate Earth's dependence on the Orbital power. Cowboy threads his way neatly through the metal web on night vision alone. He's probably confused any signal the enemy radars are getting, but the privateer craft is still getting closer. The panzer emerges into a clearing, where a metal maintenance shack rusts on its slab of concrete, and in that brief moment Cowboy fires a chaff rocket straight up and dives among the alloy trees once more.
The chaff rocket climbs three miles and bursts, and suddenly Cowboy's gear is picking up radar signals and lowenergy microwaves bouncing from everywhere. The chaff, wafting gently down from altitude, is composed of aluminum strips, one out of ten of which are implanted with a minichip and a tiny power source that records and then plays back any radio signal it receives. On Cowboy's radar displays it looks as if a vast radio Christmas tree has suddenly bloomed above the prairie. The people controlling the power grid are probably going crazy. Once out of the rectenna forest, Cowboy kicks in the afterburners again. The aircraft's signal is lost in all the chaff and he figures it's time to run. His computer maps show a riverbed ahead. It seems a good time to go fishing.
The riverbed is dry and winding, but it leaves the enemy craft far behind. There's a lot of coded radio traffic flying around, each message echoed by the chaff as it slowly flutters down. There's a frantic quality to it, and there's one message from the privateers that requests assistance from the state cops, broadcast in the clear and repeated with endless, echoing lunatic efficiency by the chaff. Cowboy grins and climbs out of the riverbed, running northeast.
It looks as if the chase craft are all down and fueling because he's well across the Missouri north of Columbia before he runs into any more trouble. He is expecting it, cooling his engines on green and utilizing cover, because the police radios are telling him another two of his decoy panzerboys have been taken and the rest driven to ground. Suddenly there's radar pulsing from directly overhead again and another radar dopplering in from the northwestern horizon, as if it's just hopped up from somebody's airfield. Cowboy slows and turns away: no good. He looks for a piece of extensive woods and can't find one, and suddenly there's another radar signature arcing in fast from the south. He fires another chaff rocket and alters course once again. The two seem confused for a moment by the chaff, but then the southern one corrects its course, followed by the northern craft. The southern craft has probably spotted him on infrared and is vectoring the other one in.
Targeting displays flash like scarlet madness in the interior of Cowboy's mind. A snarl from his throat echoes the amplified roar of the combustion chambers, and the panzer gouges earth as it spins right, toward the oncoming southern radar source. Cowboy turns his own radar off to discourage homing missiles and navigates on his visual sensors alone, his mind making lightning decisions, neurotransmitters clattering against his headswitches like hail, the interface encompassing the whole flashing universe, the panzer and its systems, the corn thundering under the armored skirts, the blithering chaff, the two hostile privateers burning out of the night. His craft threatens to leave the Earth; its bones moan with stresses and the weapons pods shriek in the wind. The air is full of dismembered corn. Two fences are flattened, and the tall silhouette of a silo spears the blackness, the panzer's optics making it seem to curl in toward him, threatening. He can see the enemy now, a conventional helicopter speeding toward him at tree level, its minigun flashing. He fires an antiradiation homer right between the privateer's eyes just as the Chobham over his head begins to ring to the sound of cannonfire. Sparks flood his exterior displays and he flinches as he loses an eye.
Then he is past, and through the armor and the bucking of the vehicle he can hear the roar of the chopper as its blades flog apart the overhead sky. The antiradiation homer missed: too much chaff confusing things, or the copter got its radars off in time. But now there's another sound; the tone of a heat-seeker asking its permission to fly, and Cowboy triggers the bird and hauls the panzer to the left, feeling as from a dim distance the lurch as the craft slaloms over a hillcrest in a spray of corn dust; sliding sideways on its cushion.
The chopper dies in a flame of blazing glory, scoring the field in an eruption of fuel and weaponry. The silo stands in rearview like a tombstone, flickering red. There is mad chatter on the radio, a scrambled microwave screaming, still recognizably human, amplified and echoed to the point of yammering lunacy by the falling chaff. The privateer coming from the northwest has just seen what happened to his comrade. The panzer is trying to turn on a reverse camber, skidding on a bed of corn silk as gravity and momentum try to turn it over. Cowboy can feel the spin of the gyros in his head, trembling as the hovercraft rides the brink.
The privateer craft wails overhead with a banshee shriek and Cowboy can see its underbody reflecting the red flickering of its comrade's pyre. A coleopter, turbines throbbing inside the rotating shrouds that top the stubby wing tips. It's a light jet-fighter craft that can take off vertically and hover, combining the best qualities of a subsonic pursuit craft and helicopter, at a considerable expense in fuel consumption. Cowboy hopes to find a window to launch another missile, but the blazing fuel just over the rise is confusing his sensors and the coleopter suddenly banks into a swift turn, scattering thermite decoys that burn like miniature parachute suns, and the window that fluttered open for a second is gone. The panzer hurls itself above the rise again and skates along the edge of the red glare cast by the scattered chopper, heading for the spire of a silo in the distance.
Plans flicker through Cowboy's liquid-crystal switches with the fluid electric grace of heat lightning. The smartest thing for the privateer to do is to keep the panzer in sight and guide others in without risking itself. In that case, Cowboy will have to go after the coleopter; but on the other hand, radar is still hopelessly confused and the coleopter can't tell: the infrared of the panzer from that of the wreck, and this is Cowboy's chance to fly. He decides to cycle up to red and run for the safety of Egypt on the other side of the Mississippi.
But the privateer pilot must have eyes like singularities, devouring worlds, or there's some remarkably fine equipment on the 'opter-maybe one of those sound detectors?-because the coleopter comes out of its bank and heads right for the panzer's exhaust. No error. Cowboy cuts in the afterburners and hopes there's some cover just over the horizon. His antiradiation homers won't work in the chaff, and neither will his radar-directed missiles. He can't get a good infrared signature from the coleopter's bow and so the heat-seekers won't be lucky, either.
The terrain is irregular, and suddenly the corn is replaced by hemp, high as an elephant's eye and bursting with resin. That will make the ground less slick than the corn did, maneuvers less critical. The enemy pilot is burning right for him in apparent anger over what happened to his friend, and Cowboy knows he can use that anger as an aikido master uses his opponent's kinetic energy against him-but first the engines have to max red, afterburners bleeding alcohol fire, and the panzer has to take some punishment.
Cowboy is airborne as he floats across the crest of a rise, and a tug on the controls slews the skimming panzer to starboard just as the coleopter triggers a weapons pod and half a dozen shaped-charge rockets set the hemp ablaze. There is pounding on the Chobham, and a blaze of red lights on Cowboy's displays tells him that one of his own weapons pods has been penetrated by a jug-sized minigun round that's wiped out a couple hundred K's worth of advanced electronics. The sensors aiming his own minigun are shot away just as he decides to trigger some rounds. The neurotransmitters clattering against Cowboy's brainchips are smoking with the sour tang of adrenaline, and the coleopter pilot seems to have tempered anger with caution because he's matching speed without overshooting, and so Cowboy has no choice but to rocket on across the good earth of Missouri, building momentum, jinking left and right, clawing against the hemp for the leverage that will send his enemy cartwheeling to the mat. The minigun hammers, hammers. The panzer's sensors flare and die.
And then Cowboy opens new floodgates of alcohol and his engines cry in anguish as in calculating fever he slams in his thrust reversers. Even through its chemical slumber his body wails as the straps dig in. Half the comp displays are frozen in utter shock. The coleopter staggers as it tries to maintain its position, but it's too close to the earth to stall in hopes of losing momentum and its flaps are already fully deployed. The pilot knows what's going to happen and is loosing thermite flares even before his half-controlled and thoroughly doomed craft whispers overhead and the tone sounds on Cowboy's aural crystal. Cowboy's missiles leap from his remaining pod, the port turbine explodes with red energy, and the coleopter whimpers in metallic pain and corkscrews in.
The panzer flees across the red-scored night. Egypt is near, but so is the dawn. Staggering systems reawaken; Cowboy gentles the engines and manages to keep them alive. Time to find a place to hide and wait out the day.
Cowboy gets across another fifty miles of country before being reined in by dawn and the sense of an approaching wave of enemy. There are thousands of abandoned farms and barns here, old privately owned places that couldn't compete with the Orbital-controlled agriplexes and their robot farms. Cowboy knows of quite a few where the old buildings, next to the robot-farmed cornfields, remain empty.
A new taste comes through the face mask as Cowboy's body is reawakened. A barn appears on his sensors, one of the long, narrow type, rectangular in cross section, designed to store baled hay in the days before the Orbitals built their big warehouses, one for every hundred farms. Carefully, with gentle precision, he shoulders aside the heavy double doors and guides the panzer into the concrete-walled barn. He remembers, just before he shuts off the engines, that he forgot to send Arkady a message.
Well, let him watch the news and find out that way. Cowboy will just tell him he couldn't get a signal through all the chaff.
With a touch of regret, Cowboy unfaces. Waves of delayed pain flame into his mind as the displays slip into night. His body is bruised and aching and slick with sweat. He takes the carbine from its scabbard and pops the hatch.
The barn smells like must and unburnt hydrocarbons. Cowboy turns the Kikuyu eyes to infrared and scans the barn. He can hear the scuttle of rats. With his hardwired nerves he can fire the carbine with perfect accuracy at anything the eyes can see.
And the eyes can see two people, huddled under some ancient straw in a concrete corner. Cowboy pauses for a moment, straining to find the signature of weapons, and then, keeping the carbine in his hand, he reaches below for a tradepack.
The cooling engines give out metallic crackles, and the doorframe, behind, is silvered with approaching dawn. Cowboy drags himself out of the hatch and climbs down the long frontal slope of armor, his boots sliding in the sticky hemp resin.
"Where you folks from?" he asks.
"New York. Buffalo." The voice is young and scared. Cowboy nears them and sees a pair of ragged kids of sixteen or so, a boy and a girl, the both of them huddled in a single sleeping bag atop a small pile of old straw. A pair of threadbare rucksacks sits in a forlorn heap near them.
"Heading west?" Cowboy asks.
"I'm going east. Bet you're tired of living on a diet of roasting ears," Cowboy says. He lofts the tradepack and it thumps on concrete next to the pair. They flinch at the sound. "There's some real food in there, freeze-dried and canned. Some good whiskey and cigarettes. And a check postdated to next Monday, for five thousand dollars."
There is silence, broken only by the sound of breathing and the scuttle of rats.
"In case you don't get the picture," Cowboy says, "the check will only be good if I finish my run."
The two look at each other for a moment, then at Cowboy. "You don't have to pay us," the boy says quietly. "We wouldn't-we're from the East, you know. We know what you're doing. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for some bootleg antibiotics."
"Yeah. Well. Just consider the money a goodwill gesture," Cowboy says, and turns away to place some remote sensors outside and close the barn doors.
Time for a rest.
Back in the panzer the cabin smells of sweat and adrenaline. Cowboy takes off the g-suit and removes the electrodes, then gives himself a sponge bath from one of his jerricans. He eats some prepared food that's heavy on protein, drinks something orange-flavored and packed with replacement electrolytes. He rolls into the little bunk.
The adrenaline still has him pumped up and-all he can see behind his closed lids are the burning afterimages of maps and displays and engine grids climbing toward orange, of exploding fuel and rockets flaming through the night with pyrotechnic abandon. And, somewhere behind the neon throbbing visions, a little claw of resentment.
It has always been enough to run the Alley, to mesh his soul with throbbing turbopumps and wailing afterburners, bringing the mail from one free zone to another. There was an ethic in it, clean and pure. It was enough to be a free jock on a free road, doing battle with those who would restrict him, keep him bound to the Earth as if he were nothing more than a mudboy. It hadn't mattered what he was carrying. It was enough to know that, whatever the state of the rest of the country, the blue sky over his own head was the air of freedom.
But of late there has been a suspicion that adherence to the ethic may not be enough. He knows that while it is one thing to be a warrior noble and true, it is another to be a dupe.
Suppose you are an Orbital manufacturer, interested in keeping control of your markets on the planet. You've won all the political control that is necessary, and you've kept prices high by controlling supply. But still, you're smart enough to know that where there is scarcity, black markets will develop. Most of the stuff-the drugs and a lot of the hardware, anyway, if not the special alloys-can still be made Earthside, but more expensively.
If you know that the black market will develop anyway, why not develop it yourself? You can keep the thirdmen supplied with a trickle of product, enough to make themselves rich. You can afford enough muscle to keep the competition down, and in the meantime you are not only dominating the legitimate market, you are controlling supply in the underground as well. You can create and supply a demand in two separate markets, the legitimate and illegitimate.
Where does Arkady get his cargo? The question was beginning to have an important sound to it.
But now the adrenaline has burned out of Cowboy's body and his aches are dragging him down. He won't find any answers in a deserted barn in Missouri and his thoughts have become muddled. It's time to slip under the narrow wool trade blanket, marked with the line that means its value had once been equated with a beaver pelt, and prepare his mind and body for the last lunge across the Alley.
It's late afternoon before he wakes, and finds the kids gone. The postdated check flutters from one of the panzer's aerials. Cowboy plucks it from the spike and looks at it for a while, wonders about ethics and debts, symbols and actions, and the thing that in olden times they called honor. Somewhere near here, he knows, there is another piece of free and lucid sky.
He does his chores, replacing the sensors that were blown away by the privateers, scraping off most of the hemp resin along with the coin and wheat chaff that's adhered to it, spraying antiradiation paint over the dings in the Chobham. The minigun has really given the craft a working over, and it's lucky more systems weren't breached. He doesn't have much in the way of weapons left, but then there's only a few miles to the Big Muddy.
He sits in his padded couch and goes into the eye-face, listening to his sensors for a few minutes. Traffic seems normal. But then, as the day wanes, there's a lot of talk to and from some airport tower in the neighborhood. The place must be only a few miles away because he can hear each syllable clearly. The chatter is uncoded and seems innocuous, but a lot of the aircraft seem to have the same prefixes. Cowboy begins to find this interesting.
Suppose you were a privateer commander angry over a couple of losses the previous night. Suppose you'd worked out that the panzer you were chasing was beaten up, possibly disabled, and in any case couldn't have made it over the Mississippi before dawn. Suppose you wanted to get some revenge for your friends who had been burned beyond recognition in a Missouri cornfield the previous night.
You'd concentrate your forces on the airfield nearest to where the panzer is waiting for nightfall, and you'd have some picket planes move over the area with the best in detection technology, and the rest would be sitting on the runway apron ready to vector in on the panzer once it's spotted, and turn it into a lightly armored grease spot in some scorched little piece of prairie. That's what you'd do.
Cowboy puts a map on the display and finds something called the Philadelphia Community Airport only four miles away. It's far too small to have this kind of traffic coming in and out, and it's just over a ridge and through some woods. Cowboy begins to smile.
By dusk he's strapped in his couch and has the engines sweetly warming. He reverses them gently and backs out of the barn, then moves at low speed across some half-rusted bobwire and along the length of the ridge, not quite daring to put his radar signature, however briefly, on top of it. There's a dirt road here and he finds it, threads along it through a grove of pine that carries with it a memory of the smell and the sound of sweet breezes, the soft pillow of needles underfoot. He leaves the road and moves through a damp bottom, where the sound of his engines is muffled by leaves and moss. Then, moving in a roundabout track, he climbs a woody plateau, nudging young pine, until his expanded vision sees a little radar tower silhouetted against the sunset.
They are all there, a dozen or more warcraft squatting like evil metal cicadas, sunset flames reflecting off their polished bodies, the barrels of their guns, the pointed noses of the weapons in their pods. The airships have slogans and cartoons painted on their noses, evocative of swift mechanical violence, warrior machismo, or the trust of the gambler in the instrument of his passion: Death from Above, PanzerBlaster, Sweet Judy Snakeyes, Ace of Spades. There are a few techs walking about on the apron, tools in their hands. Cowboy permits himself a moment of adrenaline triumph before he cuts loose.
As the panzer trembles on the verge of the clearing Cowboy has a brief image of a runner poised on splayed fingertips, his feet in the blocks, his flesh molding the sinew in which the coiled energy waits, a faultless perfection, for the end of stillness. He unleashes the power and a covey of quail burst like scattershot from before the panzer's oncoming bow. The engines cycle from murmur to thunder to shriek, and Cowboy can see the techs stand for a moment of frozen horror as the panzer lunges from the trees, mashing down a fence like an armored cyclone, a piece of roaring mechanical vengeance straight from the Inferno, and then the men in coveralls scatter, crying warning.
Too late. The armored panzer is traveling at over a hundred across the flat ground before it brushes aside the first helicopter. The panzer is heavier by far and the Ace of Spades folds like the hollow death-white abandoned skin of an insect. Cowboy's popped up his minigun turret from beneath its armored cover and has it firing behind him into the wreckage, sparking off the fuel. Sweet Judy Snakeyes crumbles in front of the armored skirts, then a coleopter named Death from Above, then another called Hanging Judge. Through one of his sensors he catches a glimpse of pilots tumbling out of the airport lounge, coffee cups still in their hands, eyes and mouths wide as they watch the conflagration. Then burning fuel begins to set off ammunition and the pilots drop their drinks and scatter like the quail for cover.
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