"Charles Stross - Yellow snow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

Yellow Snow
Charles Stross
Sometimes you have to make speed, not haste. I made twenty kilos and moved it
fast. Good old dex is an easy synthesis but the polizei had all the organochemical suppliers
bugged; when a speed stash hit the street without any blat they'd be through the audit trail
fast. They'd take a cut – my lungs, heart and ribosomes. Only idiots push psychoactives in
Paraguay: only idiots or the truly desperate. I burned out via Brazilia and crashed into Ant
City. Jet-lagged all the way across Australia, I considered my futures; it was time to move on
to something bigger.
My first impression of Ant City was of being roasted, slowly. The blistering humidity
was outflow from the huge heat exchangers run by the city reactors. Palm trees in the airport
lounge, a rude, chattering spidermonkey loose among the branches. No power, no Ants, a
simple equation: I was in Antarctica now, and wondering what the hell to do about it. It was
another world out there: I could feel a grating closeness between my shoulder blades, the
crush of humanity around me.
Alleyways of light lured me through the customs interface, briefing me on local lores.
Digital fingers rifled my flesh with radiation but I was clean and mean – nobody with any
sense takes bugs into the ant farm. It's a ticket to re-direction, and I need my inputs
remoulding like I need a concience. My scams are all cortex-ridden, locked in by mnemonics
until I'm ready to bring them out like a card sharp. Sleight of memory. The security goon
smiled sweetly, her eyes asking me if I was really alive, and waved me past the desk.
The shuttleport is half a klick above Ant City proper; I took the lift down. It was a
medium sized lift, with only a medium-sized shopping mall. Shop, shop, expend, expend. A
glaring incitement to –
I shut my eyes and as I was trying to pin down a plan this kid tried to lift the chips
from out of my skull. Which was his bad luck: I didn't have any. I opened my eyes and shifted
my grip on his wrists so he had to face me.
"Nice way to greet tourists," I said. He squirmed fearfully, muscles like metallic glass
beneath his warm brown skin. "You know what I should do with you?" He looked as if he
didn't, and wasn't interested in finding out either. He'd forgotten to feed the cat or something
else important. I looked at the inside of his wrist; the node was there.
"You eat shit," he said. I glared back at him.
"Yeah, every day just like you. I should bust your fingers. You want to tell me why
not?"
"No," said the kid, looking like trouble warmed over the next morning; "you break my
fingers then my friend come and break yours." He managed to ignore me and look
contemptuous concurrently. He couldn't have been topside of twelve years without maturity-
mods. Neomacho, cued-up by background video. For the first time I looked at his tribals. He
wore a one piece suit, ice camouflage militia-surplus. His wrist node was well-worn. Classic
case of heroin from six years, riding the horse out from under the shadow of future shock; it's
the kids who suffer most, these days.
"That would be kind of a bad idea," I said, "for your friend. I got no chips. My wallet's
armed; tell your sister to put it back before she gets gluey fingers. You want me to give you
some money?"
"You what?" said the kid. I felt butterfly fingers slip something that buzzed into my
pocket; it stopped buzzing when it sniffed me again. I'm touchy about where my wallet goes
without me.
"I repeat myself," I said; "you want to earn some money?" I leaned forward. More
suspicion.
"You want I should go to bed with you?"