"Kristine Katheryn Rusch - Alien Influences" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

have argued for fixing it.

The captain stopped at his personal suite and keyed in the access code. John had never seen this room; it
was off-limits to all but the captain himself. John stepped in, but the captain remained outside. The door
snicked shut.

Computer-generated music—technically proficient and lifeless—played in the background. The room
itself was decorated in whites, but the lighting gave everything a reddish cast. The couch was thick and
plush. Through open doors, he could see the bed, suspended in the air, cushions piled on top of it. A
room built for comfort, and for seduction.

A woman stood at the back of the room, gazing out the portals at the stars. Her long black hair trailed
down her back, her body wrapped in expensive silks. She looked the part of the seductee, although she
was the one who wanted to hire him.

John never hired out for anything but bounty work. He would tell her that if he had to.

“I would like you to work for me, John.” She didn't even turn around to acknowledge him. He felt his
hackles rise. She was establishing herself as the adult, him the child in this relationship. He hated being
treated like a child. The claustrophobia inched back on him, tighter than it had been in months.

He leaned against the door, feigning a casualness he didn't feel. He wanted her to turn around, to look at
him. “Why should I work for you?”

“Forgive me.” This time she moved, smoothing her hair as she did. Her face was stunning: full lips, long
nose, wide eyes. And familiar. “I'm Anita Miles. I run an art gallery on Rotan Base. We specialize in
unusual objects d'art....”

He stopped listening, not needing the explanation. He recognized her face from a hundred vids. She was
perhaps one of the most powerful people in this sector—controlling trade and commodities. Her gallery
sold anything that could be considered art. Once, she sold a baby Minaran, claiming that since the
species was nearly extinct, the Minarans could be appreciated only in an aesthetic way. He couldn't
remember if she had won or lost the ensuing lawsuit.

Baby trader. The entire galaxy as an art object. If she had been in business when he was a boy, what
would she have done with the Dancers?

“Why should I work for you?” he repeated.

She closed her mouth and gave him a once-over. He recognized the look. How much does he
understand? I thought I was explaining in clear terms. This is going to be more difficult than I
thought. “You're the best,” she said, apparently deciding on simplicity. “And I need the best.”

He often wondered how these people thought he could bounty hunt with no memory. He shook off the
thought. He needed the money. “What will you pay me?”

“Expenses, of course, a ship at your command because you may have to travel a bit, and three times
your daily rate—which is, I believe, the equivalent of four hundred Rotan zepeatas.”

“Eight hundred.”