"Walter Jon Williams - Hardwired" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

shifts her weight from one leg to the other, the muscles crackling with pain even through the
endorphin haze. She holds out her glass. "Another, please, Maurice," she says.
With a slow grace that must have served him well in the high starry evernight, Maurice
turns toward the mirror and reaches for the rum. Even in a gesture this simple; there is sadness.

¿VIVE EN LA CIUDAD DE DOLOR?
¡DEJENOS MANDARLE A HAPPYVILLE!
-Pointsman Pharmaceuticals A.G.

She takes a taxi home from the Blue Silk, trying to ignore Cunningham's calm eyes on the


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back of her head as she gives the driver her address. He is across the street under an awning,
pretending to read a magazine. How much is she throwing away here? She doesn't turn to see if he
registers dismay at her retreat, but somehow she doubts his expression has changed.
With Daud she shares a two-room apartment that hums. There is the hum of the coolers and
recyclers, more humming from the little glowing robots that move about randomly, doing the dusting
and polishing, devouring insects and arachnids, and cleaning the cobwebs out of corners.
She has a modest comp deck in the front room and Daud has a vast audio system hooked to
it, with a six-foot screen to show the vid. It's on now, silently, showing computer-generated
color patterns, broadcasting them with laser optics on the ceiling and walls. The computer is
running the changes on red, and the walls burn with cold and silent fire.
Sarah turns off the vid and looks down at the cooling comp deck, the reds fading slowly
from her retinas. She empties the dirty ashtrays Daud has left behind, thinking about the man in
brown, Cunningham. The endorphins are wearing off and the bone bruise on her thigh is hammering
her with every step. It's time for another dose.
She checks her hiding place on a shelf, in a can of sugar, and sees that two of her twelve
vials of endorphin are gone. Daud, of course. There aren't enough places to hide even small
amounts of stuff in an apartment this size. She sighs, then ties her tourniquet above the elbow.
She slots a vial into her injector, dials the dose she wants, and presses the injector to her arm.
The injector hums and she sees a bubble rise in the vial. Then there is a warning light on the
injector and she feels a tug of flesh as the needle slides on its cool spray of anesthetic into
her vein. She unties, watches the LED on the injector pulse ten times, and then she feels a veil
slide between her and her pain. She takes a ragged breath, then stands. She leaves the injector on
the sofa and walks back to the comp.
Michael the Hetman is in his office when she calls. She speaks to him in Spanglish and he
laughs.
"I thought I'd hear from you today, mi hermana," he says.
"Yes?" she asks. "You know this orbiter Cunningham?"
"So-so. We've done business. He has the highest recommendations. "
"Whose?"
"The highest," he says.
"So you recommend that I trust him?" Sarah asks.
His laugh seems a little jangled. She wonders if he is high. "I never make that kind of
recommendation, mi hermana," he says.
"Yes, you would, Hetman," Sarah says. "If you are getting a piece of whatever it is
Cunningham is doing. As it is, you're just doing him a favor."