"Gene Wolfe - The Horars of War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolfe Gene)

He got into position just as the mortars put up a parachute flare that hung over the camp like a white
rose of fire. Whether because of his brief sleep or the excitement of the impending fight his fatigue had
evaporated, leaving him nervously alert but unsteady. From the jungle a bugle sang, 'Ta-taa... taa-taa..."
and off to the platoon's left rear the First opened up with their heavy weapons on a suicide sguad they
apparently thought they saw on the path leading to the northeast gate. He watched, and after half a
minute something stood up on the path and grabbed for its midsection before it fell, so there was a
suicide squad.
Some one, he told himself. Someone. Not something. Someone grabbed for his midsection. They
were all human out there.
The First began letting go with personal weapons as well, each deep cough representing a half dozen
dartlike fletchettes flying in an inescapable pattern three feet broad. "Eyes front, 2910!" barked 2900.
There was nothing to be seen out there but a few clumps of elephant grass. Then the white flare
burned out 'They ought to put up another one," 2911 on his right said worriedly.
"A star in the east for men not born of women," said 2910 half to himself, and regretted the
blasphemy immediately.
"That's where they need it," 2911 agreed. "The First is having it pretty hot over there. But we could
use some light here too."
He was not listening. At home in Chicago, during that inexpressibly remote time which ran from a dim
memory of playing on a lawn under the supervision of a smiling giantess to that moment two years ago
when he had submitted to surgery to lose every body and facial hair he possessed and undergo certain
other minor alterations, he had been unconsciously preparing himself for this. Lifting weights and playing
football to develop his body while he whetted his mind on a thousand books; all so that he might tell,
making others feel at a remove...
Another flare--went up and there were three dark silhouettes sliding from the next-nearest clump of
elephant grass to the nearest. He fired his M-19 at them, then heard the HORARS on either side of him
fire too. From the sharp corner where their own platoon met the Second a machine gun opened up with
tracer. The nearest grass clump sprang into the air and somersaulted amid spurts of earth.
There was a moment of quiet, then five rounds of high explosive came in right behind them as though
aimed for Pinocchio's pit. Crump. Crump. Crump . . . Crump. Crump. (2900 would be running to ask
Pinocchio if he were hurt)
Someone else had been moving down the trench toward them, and he could hear the mumble of the
new voice become a gasp when the H.E. rounds came in. Then it resumed, a little louder and
consequently a bit more easily understood. "How are you? You feel all right? Hit?"
And most of the HORARS answering, "I'm fine, sir," or "We're okay, sir," but because HORARS did
have a sense of humor some of them said things like, "How do we transfer to the Marines, sir?" or "My
pulse just registered nine thou', sir. 3000 took it with the mortar sight."
We often think of strength, as associated with humorlessness, he had written in the news
magazine which had, with the Army's cooperation, planted him by subterfuge of surgery among these
Homolog ORganisms (Army Replacement Simultations). But, he had continued, this is not actually the
case. Humor is a prime defense of the mind, and knowing that to strip the mind of it is to leave it
shieldless, the Army and the Synthetic Biology Service have wisely included a charming dash in
the makeup of these synthesized replacements for human infantry.
That had been before he discovered that the Army and the SBS had tried mightily to weed that sense
of the ridiculous out, but found that if the HORARS were to maintain the desired inteligence level they
could not.
Brenner was behind him now, touching his shoulder. "How are you? Feel all right?"
He wanted to say, "I'm half as scared as you are, you dumb Dutchman," but he knew that if he did the
fear would sound in his voice; besides, the disrespect would be unthinkable to a HORAR.
He also wanted to say simply, "A-okay, sir," because if he did Brenner would pass on to 2911 and
he would be safe. But he had a reputation for originality to keep up, and he needed that reputation to