"Michael Swanwick - Lord Weary's Empire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

Lord Weary's Empire
by Michael Swanwick


Michael Swanwick assures us that he would update his biographical information for the
following story if it were it not for the fact that my frequent requests for this data have reduced
him in size to two and a quarter inches. He says he is being held captive in a terrarium on the
desk of Gregor Samsa in a demented research institution. (Of course, this obviously isn’t true,
since if it were, we’d have to look for Robert Reed with a microscope.) Much as we may
sympathize with Michael’s plight, this predicament has nothing to do with his latest story.
Consequently, Will, a continuing character from “The Word that Sings the Scythe” (Asimov’s,
October/ November 2004), must explore, without preamble, the treacherous subterranean
reaches of . . .
Like a leaf before a storm, Will fled. The basement corridors of Babel careened and reeled
nightmarishly by and still he could not lose his pursuers. Three times the lancers had a clear
line of sight and fired, each shot a blow to Will’s ringing ears. But then, just beyond a row of
overflowing garbage cans, Will saw a steel access door, chained shut but slightly ajar in its
frame. He stooped and, grabbing the lower edge of the door, yanked with all his might.
A bullet burned through the air over his head.

The door lurched open, wrenched out of true.

Frantically, Will squeezed through the triangular space and tumbled down a short flight of
metal steps. As he stumbled to his feet, he heard the lancers, too large to squeeze through
themselves, trying to break down the door.

Blindly, he ran.

Rats scurried away at his approach. Roaches crunched underfoot. He was in a great dark
space punctuated by massive I-beams and lit only by infrequent bare bulbs whose light
struggled to reach the floor. Somehow, he had made his way into the network of train tunnels
that spiraled up through Babel Tower.

Careful to avoid the third rail, Will followed one curving set of tracks into darkness, listening
for approaching trains. Sometimes he heard their thunder in the distance, and once a train
slammed past, mere inches from where he pressed himself, shivering, against the wall, and left
him temporarily blinded. When he could see again, the tunnels were silent. He had lost his
pursuers. He was safe now.

And hopelessly lost.

He’d been plodding along for some time when he saw a sewer worker—a haint—in the
tunnel ahead, in hip waders and hard hat. “What you doing here, white boy?” the haint asked
when Will hailed him.

“I’m lost.”

“Well, you best get yourself unlost. They’s trouble brewing.”

“I can’t,” Will began. “I don’t know—”