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

"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 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.

їVIVE EN LA CIUDAD DE DOLOR?
ЎDEJENOS 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 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."
"Do svidaniya, my sister," says Michael, sounding annoyed, and snaps off. Sarah looks into the humming receiver and frowns.
The door opens behind her and she spins and goes into her stance, balanced to jump forward or back. Daud walks carelessly in the door. Behind him, carrying a six-pack of beer, comes his manager, Jackstraw, a small young man with unquiet eyes.
Daud looks up at her, speaks through the cigarette held in his lips. "You expecting someone else?" he asks.
She relaxes. "No," she says. "Just nerves. It's been a nervous day."
Daud's eyes move restlessly over the small apartment. He has altered the irises from brown to a pale blue, just as he'd altered the color of his hair, eyebrows, and lashes to a white blond. He is tanned, and his hair is shoulder-length and shaggy. He wears tooled leather sandals, and a tight white pair of slacks under a dark net shirt. He is taking hormone suppressants, and though he is twenty he looks fifteen and is beardless.
Sarah moves over to him and kisses him hello. "I'm working tonight," he says. "He wants to have dinner. I can't stay long."
"Is it someone you know?" she asks.
"Yes." He gives a shadowy grin, meant to be reassuring. His blue eyes flicker. "I've been with him before."