"Charles Stross and Cory Doctorow - Jury Service" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

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Huw zones out during the endless sub-committee meetings that last into early evening, then suffers himself to be dragged to the hotel refectory
by Doc Björk and a dusky Romanian Lothario from the Cordon Bleu Catering Committee who casts pointed and ugly looks at him until he
slouches away from his baklava and dispiritedly climbs the unfinished concrete utility stairway to sub-level 1, where his toil is to begin. He
spends the next four hours trudging around the endless sub-levels of the hotel—bare concrete corridors optimized for robotic, not human,
access—hunting buggy transceivers. By the time he gets to his room he's exhausted, footsore, and even more sweaty.
Huw's room is surprisingly posh, but he can't appreciate it. He looks at the oversized sleep-surface and sees the maintenance regimen for its
control and feedback mechanism. He spins slowly in the spa-sized loo and all he can think about is the poxy little bots that patrol the plumbing
and polish the tile. The media center is a dismal reminder of his responsibility to patrol the endless miles of empty corridor, rebooting little silver
mushrooms and watching their blinkenlights for telltale reds.
He fills the pool-sized tub with steaming, lavender- and eucalyptus-scented water, then climbs in, burka and all. The djinn's lamp perches on the
tub's edge getting soaked in oversloshes as he shifts his weight, watching the folds of cloth flutter in aquatic slomo as its osmotic layers convect
gentle streams of water over his many nooks and (especially) crannies.
"Esteemed sir," the djinn says, its voice echoing off the painted tile.
"Figured that one out, huh?" Huw says. "No more Madame?"
"My infinite pardons," it says. "I have received your jury assignment. You are to report to Fifth People's Technology Court at 0800 tomorrow. You
will be supplied with a delicious breakfast of fruits and semolina, and a cold lunch of local delicacies. You should be well-rested and prepared for
a deliberation of at least four days."
"Sure thing," Huw says, dunking his head and letting the water rush into his ears. He resurfaces and shakes his head, spattering the walls with
water that's slightly gray with bodily ick. "How far's the courthouse?"
"A mere two kilometers. The walk through the colorful and ancient Tripoli streets is both bracing and elevating. You will arrive in a most pleasant
and serene state of mind."
Huw kicks at the drain control and the tub gurgles itself empty, reminding him of the great water-reclamation facilities in the sub-basement and
their various osmotic tissues and dams. He stands and the burka steams for a moment as every drop of moisture is instantly wrung loose from
its weave. "Pleasant and serene. Yeah, right." He climbs tiredly out of the tub and slouches towards the bedroom. "What time is it?"
"It is two-fifteen, esteemed sir," says the djinn. "Would sir care for a sleeping draught?"
"Sir would care for a real hotel," Huw grunts, then lies down on the enormous white rectangle that occupies the center of the bedroom. He
doesn't hear the djinn's reply. He's asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow.

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A noise like cats fucking in a trash can drags Huw awake most promptly at zero-dark o'clock. "What's that?" he yells.
The djinn doesn't answer: it's prostrate on the bedside table as if hiding from an invisible overhead axe blade. The noise gets louder, if anything,
then modulates into chickens drowning in their own blood, with a side-order of Van Halen guitar riffs. "Make it stop!" shouts Huw, stuffing his
fingers in his ears.
The noise dies to a distant wail. A minute later it stops and the djinn flickers upright. "My apologies, esteemed sir," it says dejectedly. "I did not
with the room sound system mixer volume control interface correctly. That was the most blessed Imam Anwar Mohammed calling the faithful to
prayer, or it would have been if not for the feedback."
Huw rolls over and grabs the teapot. "Djinn."
"Yes, oh esteemed sirrah?"
Huw pauses. "You keep calling me that," he says slowly. "Do you realize just how rude that is?"
"Eep! Rude? You appear to be squeezing—"
"Listen." Huw is breathing heavily. He sits up and looks out of the window at the sleeping city. Somewhere, a hundred gigameters beyond the
horizon, the sun might be thinking about the faint possibility of rising. "I am a patient man. But. If you keep provoking me like this—"
"—Like what?"
"This hostel. The fucking alarm clock. Talking down to me. Repeatedly insulting my intelligence -
"—I'm not insulting!—"
"Shut up." Huw blows out a deep breath. "Unless you want me to give you a guided tour of the hotel waste compactor and heavy metal
reclamation subsystem. From the inside."