"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Room of Lost Souls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

be scalped or manufactured. After five guest chips are given out,
management changes housing. There is no predictable time, nor is there
predictable housing.

“I didn’t invite you,” I say, picking up my drink and balancing its edge
on my flat stomach. I can’t quite get the balance right and I catch the drink
before it spills.

“I know,” the woman says, “but I came to see you.”

“If you want to hire my ship to do some wreck diving, go through
channels. Send a message, my system’ll scan your background, and if you
pass, you can see any one of a dozen wrecks that’re open to amateurs.”

“I’m not interested in diving,” the woman says.

“Then you have no reason to talk to me.” I take a sip. The liquid, which
is a fake but tasty honey and butter ale, has warmed during the long
afternoon. The warmth brings out the ale’s flavor, which is why I nurse it—or
at least why I say I nurse it. I don’t like to get drunk—I hate the loss of
control—but I like drinking and I like to sit in this dark, private, enclosed bar
and watch people whom I know won’t give me any guff.
 “But I do have a reason to talk to you.” She leans toward me. She has
pale green eyes surrounded by dark lashes. The eyes make her seem
even more exotic than her land-born walk does. “You see, I hear you’re the
best—”

My snort interrupts her. “There is no best. There’s a half a dozen
companies that’ll take you touring wrecks—and that’s without diving. All of
us are certified. All of us are bonded and licensed and all of us guarantee
the best touring experience in this sector. It just varies in degree—do you
want the illusion of danger or do you want a little bit of history with your deep
space adventure? I don’t know who sent you in here—”

She starts to answer, but I raise a finger, stopping her.

“—and I don’t care. I do want you to contact someone else for a tour.
This is my private time, and I hate having it interrupted.”

“I’m sorry,” she says and the apology sounds sincere.

I expect her to get up, leave the bar or maybe move to another table,
but she does neither.

Instead she leans closer and lowers her voice.

“I’m not a tourist,” she says. “I have a mission and I’m told you’re the
only one who can help me.”

In the two years since the Dignity Vessel, no one has tried this old