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Turtledove Harry - The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century / Тертлдав Гарри - Солдаты Вселенной. Лучшая военная фантастика ХХ-го века [2001, EPUB, ENG]

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The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century / Солдаты Вселенной. Лучшая военная фантастика

Название: The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century / Солдаты Вселенной. Лучшая военная фантастика ХХ-го века
Год выпуска: 2001
Под редакцией: Turtledove Harry / Тертлдав Гарри; Greenberg Martin H / Гринберг Мартин
Издательство: Del Rey
eISBN: 978-0-345-49429-0
Формат: EPUB
Качество: eBook
Язык: английский

Описание:
Сверхсветовые космические фрегаты и боевые драконы, арбалеты, бластеры и лазерные мечи, инопланетная экзотика и родная Земля, погруженная в хаос будущих звездных войн... Сборник лучшей военной фантастики XX века, составленный Гарри Тертлдавом, дает полный спектр этого литературного направления. Старые классические вещи Филипа Дика. Артура Кларка и Пола Андерсона соседствуют в книге с новой классикой — рассказами Джорджа Мартина, Уолтера Уильямса и Кэролайн Черри.
    INTRODUCTION / Предисловие Harry Turtledove
    AMONG THIEVES / Среди варваров (= Предательство; Среди воров) Poul Anderson
    SECOND VARIETY / Вторая модель Philip K. Dick
    HERO / Герой Joe W. Haldeman
    SUPERIORITY / Абсолютное превосходство Arthur C. Clarke
    ENDER’S GAME / Игра Эндера Orson Scott Card
    HANGMAN / Палач David Drake
    THE LAST ARTICLE / Последний символ Harry Turtledove
    THE GAME OF RAT AND DRAGON / Игра с крысодраконом (= Покер с крысодраконом) Cordwainer Smith
    NIGHT OF THE VAMPYRES / Ночь "Вампиров" George R. R. Martin
    TO THE STORMING GULF / Гроза над заливом Gregory Benford
    WOLF TIME / Час волка Walter Jon Williams
    THE SCAPEGOAT / Козел отпущения C. J. Cherryh
    DRAGONRIDER / Оседлавший дракона Anne McCaffrey
THE SCAPEGOAT

C. J. Cherryh

I
DEFRANCO SITS ACROSS the table from the elf and he dreams for a moment, not a good dream, but recent truth: all part of what surrounds him now, a bit less than it was when it was happening, because it was gated in through human eyes and ears and a human notices much more and far less than what truly goes on in the world—
—the ground comes up with a bone-penetrating thump and dirt showers down like rain, over and over again; and deFranco wriggles up to his knees with the clods rattling off his armor. He may be moving to a place where a crater will be in a moment, and the place where he is may become one in that same moment. There is no time to think about it. There is only one way off that exposed hillside, which is to go and keep going. DeFranco writhes and wriggles against the weight of the armor, blind for a moment as the breathing system fails to give him as much as he needs, but his throat is already raw with too much oxygen in three days out. He curses the rig, far more intimate a frustration than the enemy on this last long run to the shelter of the deep tunnels….

HE WAS GOING home, was John deFranco, if home was still there, and if the shells that had flattened their shield in this zone had not flattened it all along the line and wiped out the base.
The elves had finally learned where to hit them on this weapons system too, that was what; and deFranco cursed them one and all, while the sweat ran in his eyes and the oxy-mix tore his throat and giddied his brain. On this side and that shells shocked the air and the ground and his bones; and not for the first time concussion flung him bodily through the air and slammed him to the churned ground bruised and battered (and but for the armor, dead and shrapnel-riddled). Immediately fragments of wood and metal rang off the hardsuit, and in their gravity-driven sequence of clods of earth rained down in a patter mixed with impacts of rocks and larger chunks.
And then, not having been directly in the strike zone and dead, he got his sweating human limbs up again by heaving the armor-weight into its hydraulic joint-locks, and desperately hurled fifty kilos of unsupple ceramics and machinery and ninety of quaking human flesh into a waddling, exhausted run.
Run and fall and run and stagger into a walk when the dizziness got too much and never waste time dodging.
But somewhen the jolts stopped, and the shell-made earthquakes stopped, and deFranco, laboring along the hazard of the shell-cratered ground, became aware of the silence. His staggering steps slowed as he turned with the awkward foot-planting the armor imposed to take a look behind him. The whole smoky valley swung across the narrowed view of his visor, all lit up with ghosty green readout that flickered madly and told him his eyes were jerking in panic, calling up more than he wanted. He feared that he was deaf; it was that profound a silence to his shocked ears. He heard the hum of the fans and the ventilator in the suit, but there would be that sound forever, he heard it in his dreams; so it could be in his head and not coming from his ears. He hit the ceramic-shielded back of his hand against his ceramic-coated helmet and heard the thump, if distantly. So his hearing was all right. There was just the smoke and the desolate cratering of the landscape to show him where the shells had hit.
And suddenly one of those ghosty green readouts in his visor jumped and said 000 and started ticking off, so he lumbered about to get a look up, the viewplate compensating for the sky in a series of flickers and darkenings. The reading kept up, ticking away; and he could see nothing in the sky, but base was still there, it was transmitting, and he knew what was happening. The numbers reached Critical and he swung about again and looked toward the plain as the first strikes came in and the smoke went up anew.
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