"Charles Stross - Generation Gap" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

curling it demurely in front of his left shoulder. "Identify a species possessing attributes [1]
non-endangered, [2] non-productive, [3] non-sentient, at least in terms of root human
referents, and [4] non-interactive with ecosystem. Then kill them." He grinned, baring
wickedly filed dental implants.
I looked for a landpussy, but Jerzy had frightened them all off. Kid was looking at me
...
Let me present to you the Cannonball Express. Fastest surface transport mechanism
ever developed. Here on Luna we have this economic problem with hydrogen, deuterium:
there is none. Like you we use low thrust mass drivers for deep space work, but you can
afford to use H2 for reaction mass to get into orbit. We've got O2 in abundance but there are
problems. Second-best oxidant out. We need rusty rocket motors like we need holes in the
biome. So we use a flinger to get into orbit – a big linear accelerator , two hundred kilometres
long. One t-gee, six local gees, boosts into orbit at zero metres altitude, except it chucks over
edge of a synthetic cliff. How to get back down?
Cannonball Express, hyperbahn, is fastest road in universe. ("Road" is old referent
from pre-death earthside; look it up, you'll be amazed.) It works like this: you put your orbiting
module onto a surface-grazing trajectory. It intersects the lunar surface at start of
expressway, with downward vector about equal to one lunar gee. Big smear on surface, you
think? Wrong. Express has wheels on it – big wheels, titanium discs, spun up by turbine
before impact, brakes cooled and operated by open-circuit LOX feed. Orbital minimum
groundspeed is about 3.7 EXP 3 kilometres per hour – earthly fast.
The module touches the dragstrip at orbital velocity, very gently. Begins braking
interface. The downward vector component maintains surface contact, while vapourized LOX
bleeds off kinetic energy as heat. Pretty soon module not racing at orbital velocity any more.
We agreed to divert Cannonball Express, nip the dome, and produce a localised
atmospheric deficiency over, say, one hundred square kilometres. Then we'd move to patch
the dome when about ten percent of all kiddies went onto permanent downtime – enough to
predict consequences of a wider deployment. Genocide theory is neat.
Next field test: New Rome Triumvirate. Serve them notice for earth.
But kiddies are resistant to vacuum. I discovered this a while ago, by accident.
Examination of a memory of great-great grandpa confirmed; skin like elephant. In old days
you needed thick, dead epidermis to protect against some frequencies of radiation. Needed
hypercharged oxygen capacity in event of dome fracture. And it got thick anyway, natural
response to an irritant environment. I compared engrams with realtime vision of parent.
My parent was pretty good for a factotum; the best. Not my human parents, you
understand, who I never met, but my appointed guardian, Sheila.
Sheila was just like human in appearance, behaviour, many other capabilities. But
wasn't: not human, not machine either. I'm not sure I ever forgave them for that. Told great-
great granddad, who cross-referenced me Santa Claus, mythic pre-space benefactress who
was used to initiate consumerist behaviour among neonates. I found it, quite frankly,
improbable; why would consumption be required? Why would simulation of human parent be
required? They lied.
Great-great refused to answer my questions, faked sleep. In the warm comfort of our
homenode, where G-G was physically guesting at the time, I slipped a sweaty hand behind
his neck. My hand was wired with sensors to locate neural input vectors; I logged his Wisdom
protocols while he slept. But as I pulled away he opened his eyes wide, smiled at me with an
artifice born of centuries, and said "Try it," in that curiously cracked voice of his. I didn't dare.
It would probably have worked. And then what? Invasion of mindspace is no laughing matter.
People have been structurally reorganised for less. G-G knew it; don't tell me alternatives. He
looked at me, eyes wrinkled and ancient and knowing, with the lazy power of dragon-age, hot