"Gwyneth Jones - Flowerdust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

“Why are you following me around? I thought you were on the
other people’s side.”
She squatted, slim arms folded on her knees, watching the cat
narrowly. Divine Endurance did things that were not allowed . It
was Divine Endurance who’d insisted they could leave the factory
by themselves. Cho knew that special art-persons, geisha , like
herself, were not supposed to do that. You ought to be taken, by the
person you were going to belong to… The thought of that
disobedience still troubled her.
The cat’s diamond-blue eyes slitted smugly.
“I am looking after the Rulers’ interests. Don’t worry.”
Cho decided it didn’t matter. She didn’t mind if somehow she was
helping the Rulers as well as her own side. She made no
distinctions. Her purpose in life was to make humans happy: first
her dear companion, then all the rest. Her joy was the certainty
deep within her that she had the power to do so. However
complicated or strangely simple their needs might be, Cho could do
anything that was required. An angel doll can grant, will grant,
every wish of the human heart … She had heard that said of herself,
and she knew it was true.
“The Samsui women are having trouble with the refugees.
Something bad is happening.”
The doors on the other side of the huge shed stood ajar. The
miasma of the camp drifted through: laden with wood-smoke and
the stink of urine, shit, ripe garbage. “Something bad?” The cat’s
whiskers twitched derisively.
“Derveet says we have to find out what it is. Urgently. Otherwise
the Samsui will let the Kops take over the camp.”
The Koperasi, the Rulers’ occupying army, were themselves
Peninsulans: renegades and collaborators. They were hated up and
down the Peninsula. But on Ranganar island their presence was
accepted, if not welcomed. They shared the running of the city with
the Samsui women.
“Derveet! Pah!”
The cat glowered over this name, tail twitching sourly— the
name of the insolent human who had stolen Cho’s loyalty and
interfered with Divine Endurance’s plans. A figure, a skeletal
shadow, blocked the bar of sunlight that fell between the shed
doors.
“Who are you?”
It was a woman, a Peninsulan. Cho looked up uncertainly. The
Samsui, the city women, were heretics. The refugees were orthodox
Peninsulans, who shouldn’t use machines. Cho wondered if she was
welcome in the camp. If she was not, it would be difficult to do as
Derveet had asked. Derveet would not want her to defy the dapur,
the women’s rule that was law in the Peninsulan states.
“I’m Cho.”
The woman came up. She was unveiled, which was unusual. Her
step was wandering and loose-jointed, as if she were half-asleep.
She crouched and touched Cho, who quietly let herself be examined.