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[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] to read the expression behind her newly made death scar. Behind her the Discards edged into the light, cradling their assault pistols and gutting knives. Most had closed their helmet breathers, and since they favored the type shaped like demon half masks, their blank eyes were even more dehumanized than usual. "I thought you wanted to die here," Ghost said. "Death alleviates all pain and makes one so much stronger." "I thought I was stronger for being willing to die," Burning confessed, "but now I don't know if I'm strong enough to live. Either way, it will be unforgivable to die in battle if it means LAW implanting hostages with slave 'wares." "I've no use for anybody's forgiveness." She thought for a moment, tracing the angry zigzags of her facial markings. "What LAW does is LAW's responsibility, not yours. That's how people keep using you. But if you feel honor-bound to accept their bargain, I'll bind myself to it, too. Fiona would have, and you're my blood no less than you were hers." She backed away from him a few steps, raising her voice so that others nearby could hear. "I say we accept the amnesty, if only to keep implants out of the Broken Country. If LAW goes back on its word, there'll be time to find oblivion later killing Periapts, if it comes to that." She pointed behind her without looking to where the Discards knelt or sat in an unapproachable huddle. "They stand with me on this." Burning already knew that the children would do virtually anything for her, as she would for them. Now the Discards took her at her literal word, rising to their feet silently to show that her decisions were their commandments. It didn't really conform to the time-honored Ext tradition of an independent voice for each fighter, but no one there, not even Zone, wanted to wring separate pronouncements out of the Discards. "She makes sense," a voice in the dark said. Others agreed; some disputed it. But Burning sensed that his sister had put Page 27 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html momentum into the amnesty. Then Daddy D took over as moderator. Leaving the debate to veer on, Burning retrieved Tonne-Head's pretender Allgrave's torque, his to dispose of now by right of combat and Allgraveship. He handed the gleaming collar to Ghost. "In token of your brother's gratitude." Once Fiona would have been grateful beyond words to receive such a treasure. To Ghost, however, the torque brought only a faint smile to burgundy lips. "Largesse, Burning: another thing Tonne-Head lacked." She went to the stump of a shorn-off tree, where she drew the soot-black dagger that had been one of Ski Mahfouz Orman's few bequeathals. The Discards saw what she was doing and crowded in close, faint excitement lighting their eyes. Ghost held the torque to the stump and brought the carbon-vapor deposition blade to bear on the soft gold, cleaving it easily. Her scars bracketed with effort as she sliced up the collar like a length of sausage and tossed pieces to her little slayers. The youngest kids reached for the fragments eagerly, almost gleefully. Suddenly Ghost was their ring giver as well as their patroness, the bestower and withholder of favor. The debate over the LAW amnesty wore on, though at a certain point it became clear that a consensus had been reached. Vote counts were passed up the chain of command. Burning suspected that Zone had altered some of the figures, but it didn't matter. It was still four hours to dawn when he stepped onto the bunker to declare aloud and over the freqs, "It's the amnesty." There was a sudden silence so profound that they could hear activity at the enemy HQ. Then, all at once, there were streams of orange-red tracers shooting high into the rainy blackness, slowing at the top of their arcs, drawing parabolas over the Scrims. Strung beads of fiery fully automatic bursts went lofting every which way; red star clusters and other signal flares went up; somebody started shooting illumination rounds out of a fireball mortar. People were throwing their helmets aside and starting to scream like lunatics. Burning never found out who had fired first; maybe no one Ext had. In any event, there was no joy in the fireworks. No soldier who had fought a night battle under live rounds could feel much good from them. But there was release. More and more Exts opened up, launching rockets and grenades, waving 'ballers around over their heads, and squeezing off .50-caliber rounds as fast as they could. Burning couldn't make out a single coherent word amid all the raving, shrieking, and howling. Caution had been flung to the winds. Burning felt something hit his foot and saw that a spent slug had dropped there, grazing the boot shank's tough synthetic. An RPG swooshed by overhead, so low that it stirred his hair. Then he was tackled and realized that Daddy D had borne him over the side of the bunker. They lay together beside it, watching as Zone staggered around in the light of flares and muzzle flashes, swigging hard from a squeezebag of jangle. He had a flamethrower on his back, and with his other hand he was sending tongues of fire into the air. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |