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

the desire shared by all the dirtgirls and mudboys. To achieve it she has to want it more than the
others, and she has to be willing to do what is necessary-or to have it done to her, if it comes
to that. Involuntarily her hand rises to her throat as she thinks of Weasel. No, there is no time
for tears.
"Looking for work, Sarah?" The voice comes from the quiet white man who has been sitting
at the end of the bar. He has come closer, one hand on the back of the bar stool next to her. He
is smiling as if he is unaccustomed to it.
She narrows her eyes as she looks at him sidelong, and takes a deliberately long drink.
"Not the kind of work you have in mind, collarboy," she says.
"You come recommended," he says. His voice is sandpaper, the kind you never forget.
Perhaps he'd never had to raise it in his life.
She drinks again and looks at him. "By whom?" she says.
The smile is gone now; the nondescript face looks at her warily. "The Hetman," he says.
"Michael?" she asks.
He nods. "My name is Cunningham," he says.
"Do you mind if I call Michael and ask him?" she says. The Hetman controls the Bay
thirdmen and sometimes she runs the Weasel for him. She doesn't like the idea of his dropping her
name to strangers.
"If you like," Cunningham says. "But I'd like to talk to you about work first."
"This isn't the bar I go to for work," she says. "See me in the Plastic Girl, at ten."
"This isn't the sort of offer that can wait."
Sarah turns her back to him and looks into Maurice's metal eyes. "This man," she says, "is
bothering me."
Maurice's face does not change expression. "You best leave," he says to Cunningham.
Sarah, not looking at Cunningham, receives from the corner of her eye an impression of a
spring uncoiling. Cunningham seems taller than he was a moment ago.
"Do I get to finish my drink first?" he asks.
Maurice, without looking down, reaches into the till and flicks bills onto the dark
surface of the bar. "Drink's on the house. Outa my place."
Cunningham says nothing, just gazes for a calm moment into the unblinking metal eyes.
"Townsend," Maurice says, a code word and the name of the general who had once led him up against
the Orbitals and their burning defensive energies. The Blue Silk's hardware voiceprints him and
the defensive systems appear from where they are hidden above the bar mirror, locking down into
place. Sarah glances up. Military lasers, she thinks, scrounged on the black market, or maybe from
Maurice's old cutter. She wonders if the bar has power enough to use them, or whether they are
bluff.
Cunningham stands still for another half second, then turns and leaves the Blue Silk.
Sarah does not watch him go.
"Thanks, Maurice," she says.
Maurice forces a sad smile. "Hell, lady," he says, "you a regular customer. And that
fella's been Orbital."
Sarah contemplates her surprise. "He's from the blocs?" she asks. "You're sure?"
"Innes," Maurice says, another name from the past, and the lasers slot up into place. His
hands flicker out to take the money from the bar. "I didn't say he's from the blocs, Sarah," he
says, "but he's been there. Recently, too. You can tell from the way they walk, if you got the
eyes." He raises a gnarled finger to his head. "His ear, you know? Gravity created by centrifugal
force is just a little bit different. It takes a while to adjust."
Sarah frowns. What kind of job is the man offering? Something important enough to bring
him down through the atmosphere, to hire some dirtgirl and her Weasel? It doesn't seem likely.
Well. She'll see him in the Plastic Girl, or not. She isn't going to worry about it. She