"Charles Stross - Escape" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

I blink back the nightmare voice -- berating me in the Boss's oleaginous tones -- and concentrate on
reality instead of lurid daydreams. Mik doesn't say anything. I see through his drone eyes, but he doesn't
move. " Status. How's Mik?" I ask my wisdom.

There's an uncharacteristic delay: things really are backlogged. "Ambiguous query. Please
repeat."

"Shit." " Report his conditions."
"Mikhail Vann ... biological systems terminal. Brain death inevitable.
Dreamtime access unavailable."

"What the fuck --" Dreamtime access unavailable? "What's wrong with the Dreamtime?" I demand,
frantically trying to locate the keys to my own body. "What's Mik dying of, dammit!"
"Blood pressure dropping. Cardiac arythmias are ... correction, ventricular
fibrillation is in progress. All symptoms are consequent on massive
haemorrhage. Dreamtime access has been denied; full bandwidth is already in
use, priority level zero."

"Can't you dump him somewhere? Like the autopilot?"
"Negative. Dumping to non-sapient storage. Dump failed. Insufficient buffer
capacity."

I open my eyes. "Oh shit." Someone's dying in the dark. The bridge is a red-lit washout, close and
stiflingly full. Bodies float, twitching, in restrainer webs, their heads encased in cortex-wrap helmets.
There's a smell of unwashed skin, stale farts, and something else.

My fingers are numb and cold from inactivity. I fumble with my restraints as quietly as I can, listening. The
door's closed, the only breeze the gentle sigh of the air recyclers. Bodies twitch gently to either side:
Boris in deep fusion with the ship conditioning intelligence, Mik riding a distant drone. Lorma, a guy
called Izmir and a woman I've never seen before -- emaciated, elfin-eared -- blindfolded into their
machine dreams like the prey of a spidery mind-eater waiting in the shadows. I shiver. Mikhail Vann
dumped. Metabolic functions terminated. There's a faint ping from one bulkhead, metal clicking
between memory states in the moment between breaths. I loosen the sling around my waist and pull
myself towards the ceiling.

" Finger," I call: ancient signal. " Who's present in real time?"

Nobody but you , the ghost echoes in my skull.

"Oh shit," I whisper. "That means --" I look at the door. It's so perfect it takes my breath away with
horror: so obvious! How could I be so careless? I grab the webbing support above me, yank myself up
towards the gridded, dust-smudged roof, prepare to work my spidery way towards the equipment
locker by the door -- through shadows of concealment, fat lot of use if they find me -- when everything
goes dark and I loose my body sense. The damn interface has come back to life: someone's demanded
my attention and I can't shut them out because it's an emergency.

"Cover me," says Parveen. In the gloom she can just make out Lorma manoeuvring round, extending
weapons. Her attention is focused on the wall, the tip of her drill, the vanishing point where they
converge.