Rx_bot: переводы

→The traitors were still chatting and playing their
lousy music, making enough noise to cover the
sounds of Jill's makeshift chemistry set. They didn't
even hear her setting up the portable battery-powered
fan next to the vent. She combined the ingredients
and started them cooking. Then she stood well back
from the deadly cyanide gas, covering her mouth with
a rag she'd found in the crate with the fan.
The last words she heard from the traitors came
from the deep voice before it wheezed, coughed, and
choked. "The masters say the Earth is the most
important place in the galaxy to them right now," he
said, "and we're in the center of the action."
As Jill left the drugstore, she looked up at the
darkening sky. "You're on your way to Phobos now.
After that you'll go so far away I'll probably never see
any of you again. I did those two creeps for you.
Good-bye, Albert, Arlene . . . Fly."

→While Tweedledumb and Tweedledee continued
stroking each other, Jill checked the contents of the
other boxes. The enemy was using this drugstore as a
place to stockpile . . . everything Jill needed to make
cyanogen.

→Dr. Ackerman thought Jill was a genius. As young
as she was, she already knew there was a reality
beyond cyberspace, and that reality was just as impor-
tant when it wasn't virtual! She had many interests--
like chemistry, for instance.

→Jill had heard enough. Fly had often asked what she
would do if she got a crack at human traitors. She'd
wondered about that, too. Now she had her chance to
find out.

→"Yeah, I heard that, too." The other one snickered.
"The masters are the only life besides us. They've told
us. Except for life they create, of course. That's why
we're so important to them; we're the only other
intelligent life in the galaxy."

→Jill didn't need them to spell it out: these were
human traitors. The real McCoy. These dips hadn't
crawled out of any vat. She was shocked that these
human bad guys couldn't come up with a better name
for the Freds than "the masters." Really . . .
"I was at the general's briefing," said the deep
voice. "He told us the resistance is so desperate
they've started a propaganda campaign to convince
people that the masters have enemies elsewhere in the
universe."

→"They've already taken care of the meek," replied
the higher voice, snickering. He sounded like Peter
Lorre out of an old horror movie.

→"The masters say we will inherit the Earth," said
the deeper voice.

→She didn't like the sick feeling in her gut. A drug-
store sign beckoned. She went in, hoping to find
something that would settle her stomach.

→The idea made her literally sick. She threw up and
covered herself in an odor like that of sour lemons,
which would be useful if she needed to pass for a
zombie herself. She looked bad enough. She hadn't
slept in days. The circles under her eyes and the
graveyard pallor of her skin gave her a living-dead
appearance.

→She hated to run, especially from a zombie, the very
bottom of the monster food chain. But running was a
lot better than being groped by those rotting hands
with the jagged yellow fingernails. So she hauled ass.
A normal zombie might not run very fast. This one
didn't have the energy to do anything but curse. It
wasn't until Jill was three blocks away that she
wondered if maybe the creature really wasn't a zom-
bie. The thought that some homeless person had been
missed by both sides in the war made Jill's skin crawl.
Jeez, it was possible. The zombies might not notice
a bum, especially if he'd been sleeping in the right
garbage and had a sour odor on him. The big mon-
sters might assume he was a zombie, and any humans
coming through the area would think so too.

→The sun was at a late afternoon slant, making
objects caught in the light stand out from their
surroundings. She was grateful she had sunglasses.
She was less grateful that she was lost. Something
had gone wrong with Ken's plan. He'd talked the
captain of the sub into meeting her, but only if she
arrived on schedule. She hadn't. The sub was long
gone by now. Captain Ellison couldn't be expected to
endanger his crew any longer than necessary.
Left to her own devices, as usual, Jill worked her
way back to L.A., where the first sight greeting her was
a zombie window washer. The thing saw her with its
watery eyes and began shambling in her direction,
brandishing a plastic bottle full of dirty water. Jill was
fresh out of ammo.

→"We are giving ourselves to a name," mine finished.
Then we stood there like four idiots waiting for
someone to say something. We'd succeeded in getting
them to speak separately, but now they played
sentence-completion games. What the hell, at least
they gave themselves a handle: "We are Sears and
Roebuck. We are your friend. We will take the battle
to all enemies, and together we fight the Freds."
Alone. Silence. She drifted down deserted streets.
In the late afternoon the temperature dropped
quickly. Jill put her windbreaker back on, but she was
still cold. She didn't like coffee, but she was glad to
have the hot cup in her hand; and she needed the
caffeine. Swirling the remains in the Styrofoam cup,
she looked thoughtfully at the light brown color that
came from two powdered creams. But it still tasted
bitter, just like coffee. At least she had managed to
find food in the abandoned grocery store.

→"This part of we?" asked mine. I nodded.
They put their heads together. They weren't doing
any sort of telepathy. These guys were whispering the
same sentence. Sounded like a tire going flat.
Then they looked up at the same time. Mine spoke
first: "After looking to your special English ..."
"Americanian," Fly's gorilla picked up the sen-
tence.

→"Separate?" he asked. Apparently there were some
problems with the English lessons.

→I touched the one nearer to me and asked, "Do you
have a name separate from the other?"

→A general would like slightly better information. I
joined Fly. He was on one side of them so I took the
other, effectively bracketing them. Now we had a
mКnage Б quatre.

→"How many?"
The other took his turn. "Going to a trillion less.
Coming from a hundred more."

→Magilla number one looked at Magilla number two.
I think they were deciding which one would speak so
we wouldn't suffer through the stereo routine again.
One of them answered: "The Klave R Us."

→He repeated the procedure with the next one and
received the same answer. Then he followed up:
"That's your race? Your, uh, species?"