"James Alan Gardner - League of Peoples 07 - Radiant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner James Alan)

For two months after my arrival, I did nothing except "button-polishing"—the mundane chores required
to keep my equipment in top condition.Pistachio didn't have anything else for me to do. Explorers on a
starship filled the same niche as marines on old seagoing boats: while the regular crew ran the ship, we
did whatever else was necessary. Landing on hostile planets. Boarding civilian craft suspected of
breaking safety regulations. Helping to evacuate vessels in distress.

ButPistachio never had any such missions. We were just a utility ship, running straightforward errands in
the tamest regions of space—mostly transporting personnel and materials.Pistachio's uninspiring work
never demanded an Explorer's specialized skills. Therefore, I idled away my days like a firefighter in
monsoon season, filling the time with preventive maintenance: inspecting the tightsuits we'd use for
landings, calibrating my Bumbler (an all-purpose scanning/analysis device), checking the charge in my
stun-pistol, and generally inventing work to keep myself from self-destructive boredom.

Despite years of rejection and being an Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl, I was still "unskillful" at finding things
to do on my own. In the Academy, I'd had classwork every waking moment. I'd also had fellow students
who knew how it felt to watch pleasure-palace people reel away from you in disgust. OnPistachio,
however, I'd entered a social vacuum with no friends and no pressing duties. No mother to fight with. No
coping skills.

I thought I would die from loneliness—not the sharp, aching kind but the dull, ongoing blur. It can feel
like fatigue that never goes away; it can feel like dissatisfaction with everything around you; it can even
feel like lust, as you lie alone in the dark and pretend someone else is there.

But it's loneliness. Deep, helpless, hopeless.

I tried to clear my head with meditation, but never managed more than half an hour at a sitting. Not
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nearly enough to ease my restlessness. If I'd been back home, I'd have asked a spiritual master what I
was doing wrong... but no one onPistachio could help me, and I certainly couldn't help myself.

I found myself prowling the ship corridors at night, hoping something would happen. The engines
exploding. Falling in love. Having a mystic vision. Getting a nice piece of mail.

Now and then, I contemplated becoming a drunk or nymphomaniac. Wasn't it traditional for bored,
lonely people to plunge into petty vice? But that was more Western than Eastern; when Bamars went
stir-crazy, they usually shaved their heads, stopped bathing, and starved themselves into oblivion. Which
I might have done, except that head-shaving, etc. were favorite tricks of my mother when she wasn't
getting enough attention. I swore I wouldn't go that route.

For a while, I tried to exhaust myself dancing: in my cabin, in the Explorer equipment rooms, in the
corridors when I was alone. But every place onPistachio felt cramped, except a few big areas like the
transport bay, which always had people around. I couldn't bring myself to dance with regular crew
members watching. Anyway, I hadn't danced much since I'd entered the Explorer Academy. My ballet
was rusty, my flamenco lacked rhythm, my yein pwe had no grace, my derv just made me dizzy, and my
freestyle... every time I started something loose and sinewy I ended up as tight as wire—stamping my