"Williamson,.Michael.Z.-.Freehold.02.-.The.Weapon.v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

were all there for basic training. I admired a couple of them,
though. There was a striking redhead with sapphire blue eyes who
was on the slightly elfin side. Nice! I could only wonder what she
was training for. We chatted briefly, but didn't really have much to
talk about except our upcoming ordeal. We didn't want to talk about
that. Her name was Denise ("Call me Deni. Everyone does.")
Harlett, and she hit all my buttons for lean women. Her lion's mane
of red hair was gently restrained by a static band behind her ears,
her tattoos were temporary nanos, not permanent ink, so she could
change styles without surgery, and what body art and makeup she
did wear was quite restrained for her age, which I put at about my
twelve, or eighteen Earth years. She seemed a bit odd; her
clothing didn't match her style and was rather plain. It was as if
she'd studied makeup and snuck some with her, but hadn't been
able to afford clothes. Well, some people do get dressed by their
parents until they escape.

We retreated to the only two chairs, in a corner of the room, and
tried to talk for quite a few segs. ("Seg" is local time measure, 100
seconds.) Neither of us mentioned training. We discussed music
and camping. It was safer.

It turned out she was another fan of Cabhag, at least a closet one.
"My friend has a huge collection," she said. "I love the way they mix
ancient and modern instruments."

"You dance?" I asked. Gymnastics had got me into dancing. I'm
pretty good. And women love a man who can dance.

"No," she said. "Well, I've never really tried. Logan's a small town
and pretty far north for any real clubs."

Miss. Damn. I looked her over again while trying to come up with
another topic. Then I noticed one of the strange things about her:
no ear piercings. None. Not even a pair of basic studs. "You don't
wear jewelry?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I'm—"

Right then they came by and did a bed check. Some sergeant
came through the door, filling it as he did so, and said, "Everyone
to your assigned rooms, it's lights out." They were ensuring,
already, that we were where they could keep us reined in. I guess it
made sense, especially after we tried to remove a drunk from the
room I was sharing with a military firefighter-to-be. It took both of us
and the local sergeant, and Deni, who held the door and helped
shove him through. She seemed to enjoy it.

I got a brief chewing out over the liquor, apologized, and watched
as they dragged off the struggling body. His career was over