"Gwyneth Jones - The Tomb Wife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

The Tomb Wife
by Gwyneth Jones

Gwyneth Jones is the author of more than a dozen novels, including
Divine Endurance, Bold as Love, and Kairos. She won the Tiptree Award
for her novel White Queen and the Philip K. Dick Award for Life. She also
writes books for young readers under the name Ann Halam. Her short
fiction has been collected in Seven Tales and a Fable, which won the
World Fantasy Award, but this, her first story to appear in our pages, is
science fiction and not fantasy. Ms. Jones (who should not be confused
with the Welsh soprano of the same name) lives in Brighton, U.K., and
can be found online at homepage.ntlworld.com/gwynethann/.

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“In Lar’sz’ traditional society,” said the alien, “a lady would often be buried
with her husband. A rather beautiful custom, don’t you think?”

The Active Complement of the interstellar freighter stared at him,
slightly alarmed. Their companion, the illustrious “passenger” who had
elected to share their vigil, liked to play games with their expectations. They
never knew when he was joking. Humor glinted in Sigurt’s black
eyes—sharply diamond-shaped as to the rims, a curious and attractive
difference from the Blue Planet oval.

“No, no! Not buried alive. Not like that, not at all. She would live in the
tomb: she would retire there of her own free will, to spend the rest of her
days in peace and solitude.” He reached a claw-like fingernail to scratch his
ear. “Lar’sz’ nobles and peasants continued the practice well into historical
times. It’s the sons of the soil and the owners of the soil who preserve old
cultural features, isn’t it? And the dispossessed, of course. Refugees.”

They were gathered in the mess: seven Blue Planet humans, vital
components in the freighter’s wetware: plus one celebrated alien
archaeologist. The hold was laden with precious ancient artifacts from
Sigurt’s World, on their way to an exhibition. The Cultural Ambassadors and
their staff were making the crossing in dreamtime, but this black-eyed,
shadow-skinned, graceful creature preferred activity. They were not
clear—they weren’t good at reading the small print—whether “Sigurt” was a
generic name, or whether their archaeologist was also the actual “Sigurt”
who had made first contact. None of them had yet dared to ask him.

It was a pleasant, low-ceilinged saloon, decorated in silver and green,
the traditional color scheme of the young culture of interstellar transport.
Light gleamed from above like sunlight through leaves, the floor had the
effects of grass and mosses. They sat around a blond wood table, actually
extruded ceramic fiber, that faithfully recalled polished birch. The air was
fresh and sweet, the whole impression was as if they were in a roomy tent,
a pavilion pitched in sunny woodland, somewhere in the Blue Planet’s
beautiful temperate zones. But outdoors the blizzard raged, pitiless,