Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Шарон Ли - Agent of Change» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию без сокращений). В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Год выпуска: 1988, ISBN: 1988, Издательство: Baen Books, Жанр: Старинная литература, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.

Agent of Change: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Agent of Change»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Agent of Change — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Agent of Change», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

If there was space—and there had to be space on a ship this size—he might begin a session of L'apeleka .

He shook his head. Composure was needed to practice that Clutch discipline. He had taken time, between missions, to enter as far as the Fifth Door without a partner, and had never failed to feel more—alive.

I have to go home, he thought.

But no, that wasn't getting him anywhere. The flashes behind his eyes showed a new reading on the CPS, a figure he didn't want to admit to consciousness.

His thirty-day chance of personal survival was down to .09.

"The mind must be composed for proper utilization of the Survival Loops," he recalled.

If only he could relax! He was certain the figures would be higher.

One wall flashed brilliant gold, went to streaked yellow with orange specks, then turned red as the floor flowed green; and his hand looked even less distinct.

It was good that Miri was not there, he reflected.

He would find it impossible to deal patiently with her questions, her demands for attention—yet he was glad that had gotten her out of Juntavas territory, that she'd have a chance to get on with her life when they raised Volmer. Glad that he'd gone back for her.

And why had he? What was she but a deadly danger, growing more deadly all the time? The things she knew—the things that he, himself, had told her! The things she had seen—and she saw much, he was sure. She was a threat and a danger, to himself and to his mission—

"What mission, dammit!"

He was on his feet, glaring around at the chaotic walls. Deliberately, he took a breath and combed his fingers through his hair.

Relax, he told himself gently. Stop thinking so hard. This was Edger's ship; likely it would take a Battlewagon a week to break in, if there were trouble. He had security, safety—for the moment. For the next week or two. He was secure. He could relax.

Carefully, refusing to look at the flowing floor, he crossed to the opposite wall and sat on the wide upholstered shelf. He lay down after a moment and began to review the plans he'd had for helping Miri, wondering if that were the mission the Loop was figuring.

No, he reminded himself, you're at low energy. Training tells you to be at your best before attempting long-range planning. Relax.

Closing his eyes, he reached for the simple relaxation drill he'd learned as a Scout cadet, so long ago: Recall the colors of the rainbow, one-by-one, and assign each a special property. Relax the body somewhat, then the mind; relax the body more and the relaxed mind would relax still further. Using that as a beginning, one could go to sleep, set goals, or enter special states for study, review, or reflex-reaction control.

Relax. He began the ritual, lying quietly, hands loose at his sides. Visualize the color red. Red is the color of physical relaxation . . . .

It took concentration, with the other colors flashing in his head. Red. He held it before his mind's eye, using it to relax tight chest muscles; he felt the warmth of his blood, flowing; he eased tense neck muscles, then leg muscles—and moved on with the technique. He saw through the colors flickering behind his eyes, seeing only the color he desired as he went through the layers, relaxing physically, mentally, physically, mentally.

He felt as if he were floating, barely conscious of the comforting pressure of cloth and leather against his skin. Mentally, he approached the switch level, the depth of mind where he might assign his concentration to a project or merely go to sleep, if he chose that path.

His thought was focused on the color violet—the end of the rainbow. Behind the color another image began to form unbidden, undesired. He tried to suppress it, but it grew more vivid. He recognized the sequence; one of the training-review programs from The Lectures, the series of tortures and teachings that had graduated him from Scout to spy. Too late, he thought to break the rainbow's spell; found himself locked in, forced to watch: There. Before him: People dying. His targets. His victims.

That program rated the efficiency of kills; it was not supposed to impose itself after training.

But it was rating his last fight.

The man shot in the eye: That was rated highly efficient; the shoulders of a crawling man protect the heart and lungs, and a spine shot is unlikely.

The woman who had half-crouched: That was efficient, slightly off-center to the left in the chest. Even if not a death-shot, she would be out of action for the duration of the incident.

Now he was swept fully into the review: five, six, seven, ten, twelve—every shot he'd taken to save Miri, to save himself, all those people, dead yet recalled so vividly. Not many poor-risk shots, not many misses. Dead people. Blood on the floor, on the wall. The knife throw at the hidden assassin was rated circumstantially excellent: that man and the woman should have been shot.

No! That was Miri!

Relentlessly, the training-review went on, driving Val Con further and further into the dead past.

* * *

The walk to the control room convinced Miri of several things. One was that her shirt felt indecently delicious against her: soft and comfortable and erotic all at once.

Another was that the sheer size of Edger's ship hadn't really hit her before. So far she'd passed a room that was half swimming pool and half lawn, and another room that was a gigantic sleeping compartment.

The third thing she'd become convinced of was that the strange effects—the colors and the shifting fuzziness of things—were real. They were nothing like the hallucinogens she'd taken years ago, nor did they bear any resemblance to the truly weird stuff that had happened in her head that time she'd been poison-speared in the leg.

Comfortable in her certainty, she stepped into the control room—and stopped.

Val Con was not at the board.

She tried to ignore the strange colors of the floors and walls, the odd rainbows snowing out of the crystal in the center of the ... it was hard to define things with all this change going on. She scanned the room again.

There! He was lying on one of the long slab seats, but he hardly looked restful. In fact, he looked poisoned, somehow, transfixed—muscles all in stark relief, mouth grimacing, eyes screwed shut.

Miri approached slowly and stood frowning over him. His fists were clenched, she noted. He was breathing.

"Hey, Tough Guy!"

There was no response.

"Pay attention to me!" she tried, raising her voice.

Nothing.

She put her hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, Tough Guy, this is important!" She shook the shoulder, lightly at first, then hard.

"Tough Guy! Let's go!" The command voice didn't work—and that was bad.

He was sweating, the renegade lock of hair plastered tight across his forehead, his face a muddy beige color.

Miri bit her lip and felt for the pulse in his wrist. It was strong and steady, but fast. That was all right for now, but it wouldn't stay that way if he didn't come out of it soon.

She yanked on his arm, pulling him into a sitting position, hoping to see a reaction. Any reaction.

Nothing.

"Val Con!" she cried, using her voice as a whip, making his name a command to return. "Val Con!"

He did not respond.

She swore, softly and with feeling, recognizing battle shock, otherwise known as hysterical paralysis. She'd seen enough of it to know the symptoms—and the cure.

Some people could be pulled out easily, by a familiar voice calling their name. Other people required more drastic measures. Pain, physical and immediate, worked best.

She hurled herself forward, shouting in his face. "Val Con!"

Nothing. Not so much as a stutter in the rapid rhythm of his breathing.

Читать дальше
Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Agent of Change»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Agent of Change» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё непрочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «Agent of Change»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Agent of Change» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.

x