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all these years, he still didn't know what
"J.T." stood for.
Heavily, Grant said, "I don't know what you want me to do, Domi. There's
nothing I
can do."
She pressed against him, putting an arm around the broad yoke of his
shoulders. Softly, she said, "There's plenty you can do. The colonial security
forces are always looking for experienced people.
That's where most ex-Rangers end up."
He grunted. "Yeah. As hired thugs. Not much of a career advancement."
"Or you could join one of the trader consortiums. That's what I think I'll
do."
Grant only grunted again, thinking about all the sleek, well-dressed and much
younger merchants who would be her new associates in the consortiums.
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201
Her fingernails bit into his skin. Desperately she demanded, "Don't you see?
Your devotion to the corps, to Kane, is like a rock around both our necks, our
futures. A big black stone dragging at us, holding us back "
The pain in Grant's head abruptly became a wild tornado of agony. He was dimly
aware of clasping the sides of his skull, as if to keep the bones intact. His
brain felt as if an ASP pistol had been fired within it.
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A jumbled montage of images flooded his mind, all in a crazed whirl. He saw
himself encased in black body armor no, not armor but a black uniform with a
peaked and visored cap...no, not a uniform, but wearing ragged and
bloodstained camouflage clothes...no, a white bodysuit...
He glimpsed Domi, slashing with a knife, then saw her sprawled dead and bloody
on a floor.
All the faces and figures spun madly, melding to become a series of geometric
shapes, locking together to form a black trapezohedron, as dark as a coal
sack, yet somehow shining.
Slowly, Grant's hearing returned and the flaming cyclone of pain in his skull
guttered out. He realized he was on his hands and knees, hanging his head.
Domi's wild, frightened cries filled his ears.
"Augustus, what is it? What's wrong? Tell me!"
Husking out a shaky laugh, Grant heaved himself up into a chair. He murmured,
"Augustus? That's my name? Fucking fireblast."
Peering at him fearfully, face level with his, Domi asked, "Tell me you're all
right!"
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Thanks for bringing that up."
202
JAMES AXLER
Her eyebrows met on either side of her delicate nose bridge. "Bringing what
up?"
"The big black stone around our necks. It made everything crystal clear."
She stared at him, perplexed and worried. "It did?"
Grant nodded shortly. "It did. And before I'm done here, it won't be dragging
at anybody else."
MAN IN BLACK, agent provocateur, traitor to humanity...
Those terms and many more not repeatable in polite company had been applied to
Colonel C. W.
Thrush in the old historical records Brigid Baptiste memorized. Like other
infamous traitors in human history, Benedict Arnold, Simon Girty and Quisling,
Thrush's name was synonymous with amorality and treachery.
Unlike his predecessors, Thrush was a complete enigma. He was faux, a fake man
with forged military credentials and a completely fictionalized background.
Also unlike the other traitors, Thrush's existence was known to very few and
even then as more of a legend, the quintessential boogeyman of the
twenty-first century.
Baptiste repressed another groan as the pain in her head twinged. She rose
from the small computer module on the table, but too quickly. She went
stumbling half the length of her quarters. Although she caught herself on the
wall, the impact, as slight as it was, made her headache redouble in intensity
for a moment. She cursed the low gravity and the side effects of space travel.
The farthest she had ever been from the archives
Outer Darkness
203
was a lunar observation station in low Earth orbit when she'd been twelve. The
lower gravity on
Parallax Red wreaked havoc with her emotional and physical equilibrium.
Anticipating the next day's events when she would be in deep space kept her in
a state of nervous agitation. For the past few hours, she had studied and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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