"John Meaney - Blood and Verse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meaney John)

But I can’t resist one last sweeping glance at the endless sea and rain.

Will I grow used to this?

For the rainfall has lasted ten thousand years. I don’t expect it will stop
anytime soon.

***

Inside, a wizened old man, hunched behind a black quickglass desk, nods in
welcome. Orange highlights glint upon the obsidian teardrop implanted in his
forehead: jewellery, or something more? A velvet skullcap sits on his bald scalp.

“May I take your details?” His voice is surprisingly sonorous, couched in the
local twenty-tone Lingshua dialect. “If I may, sir...”

I hold up my hand, wondering why my tu-ring hasn’t done its job. With a tsk
sound which might mean anything, the old man shakes head.

“Our omninterface isn’t translating. Please respond verbally.”

I look around, but there’s nothing special to be seen: just ornate woodwork
and ceramic. Orange glowglobes. A small black floating mesodrone which appears
to be engaged in earnest machine communication with my own. No other visible
devices.

“Go ahead.” My voice sounds strange, though I’ve been practising Lingshua
for nearly a Standard Year, subjective. “What do you need to know?”

“Your name?”

I pause, considering a lie, then: “Andrei v’Danshin KaDonnel.”

“Age?”

Why the Hades should he need to know that? But I’ll obey the local mores
where I can.

“Twenty SY.”

I wonder if I’m the only person here who knows that Standard Years are
based on ancient Terra’s rotation period. From what I know of the local education
system—

“—and designation?” Another question.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your world of origin, young sir, and societal designation.”