"c161" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)
NOONTIDE NIGHT - Chapter 16.1
Chapter 16.1
1:20 P.M, Monday, January 31, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand
Morgan studied the sunlight reflecting off Manukau Harbor.
Morgan's resolve rose and fell like the waves. The need to get
blood to Jeremy was a crest, the way Axton smiled a trough.
Instinct told him to run. Get away from this monster. Find
another way.
Morgan sat.
"I hear the police have put a reward on any captured Nation
of the Strong terrorist," Axton said. Always with the damn smile.
His face was perpetually flushed red, as if sunburned from the
flames of Hell. "And being dead, I don't suppose you received a
draft notice..." He cocked his head. "I see you did. The U.S.
government doesn't know you're dead yet, of course. Just that
you're not showing up." Axton put his hands flat on his desk.
"But look. I know you think I'm an asshole, and I've never liked
you, so let's get down to business. You wouldn't be here unless
you wanted something. What would that be?"
Morgan resignedly told him about Jeremy and their scheme to
get him blood.
Axton pursed his lips and nodded. "I can see that working."
Morgan waited for the other shoe. Axton seemed comfortable
withholding it. Finally Morgan couldn't take it any longer. "In
exchange for what?"
"Oh, nothing much. Programming. I know many people in
the... the import/export business. Like so many businesses, they
underestimated the problems the Y2K matter would cause, and
they're more dependent on software than they realized. They can't
exactly apply to the New Zealand Software Reconstruction Priority
Board, unfortunately."
"You mean they smuggle drugs."
Axton didn't twitch. "It's not my policy to ask what products
they're working with." He took out a pad and wrote an address
for McGreevy and Son's warehouse in Onehunga. "Go here and
tell them you've 'come to help with the moving.' They'll show you
what they need. But come here first thing every morning so I can
tell you where to go for the day."
"You're going to sell me to the highest bidder."
"I call it 'priority scheduling.' I'll have Stefan meet you at
McGreevy and Sons at, say"—he looked at his watch—"eight
o'clock."
Morgan was annoyed. "Eight? Couldn't you get him over
there today?"
"I meant today. Tonight."
Morgan's chest tightened. Until now he'd only known it
subconsciously: Axton would sap him for all he was worth, like
icy water. He just wasn't sure he was ready to plunge in. But he'd
already jumped off the pier.
Axton put his head down and continued working. Morgan
was dismissed.
The warehouse was more of a vast metal shed; smells of old
wooden packing crates and stale cigarette smoke carried on the air.
Forklifts beeped and whirred moving crates to and fro at what
Morgan felt were excessive speeds. Morgan was nearly run over
looking for the office. The office held a flurry of papers, dirty
ashtrays, and an old IBM PC that was so grime-smudged the
keyboard letters were unreadable.
"But they told us this computer was Y2K compliant," one of
their clerks said. Morgan tried to explain briefly that it wasn't
enough for the computer, the hardware itself, to be compliant.
Every piece of software they cared about (and a lot they didn't
know they had that was also invoked silently) had to be ready too.
He gave up explaining when the realized the guy didn't have a
clue what he was talking about. Not that it mattered now.
Their problem was hairy. They were using an older database
program, Novell's DataPerfect. After a few frustrating hours on
the web, Morgan understood that DataPerfect was not only not
Y2K compliant, but that no fix existed for it. Novell had sold
WordPerfect to Corel, but nobody picked up DataPerfect. The
product was simply no longer supported. Getting ahold of newer
database software should only take as long as physically finding
a store both open and having the product in stock; a few days,
perhaps. Something he could no doubt delegate to their
"purchasing" administrator. The database itself was more
problematical. Morgan had never used DataPerfect. The
warehouse crew lacked any manuals for it. Worse, he knew the
language the warehouse program was written in would be nothing
like that used by the new software. The program would have to be
rewritten from scratch.
He stared at their program for hours. He dreaded telling the
news to these "businessmen."
Worse, he grew nauseous at the thought of learning their
business. He'd have to have them explain exactly what this
program did in order to rewrite it. If anyone here even knew
exactly what it was supposed to do. He already grasped some by
reading the old software's instructions. Yet there was no escaping
that he'd have to learn their business.
There were so many other programs out there that needed
fixing. Worthy programs. Untainted programs. Lifesaving,
civilization-saving programs. His stomach churned at the thought
he was wasting his time greasing the wheels of criminals.
He pressed his palms to his eyes. Jeremy, damn it, why did
you have to come early! If only... but for...
Sometime in his morose staring at the program it had grown
dark. And of course, he hadn't found a way to tell Desiree where
he was or what he was doing. Damn. Too bad Axton said the
doctor couldn't come earlier. He'd argued, but Axton said he
couldn't move the hands of time.
A slender, sandy-haired man with a ball nose walked up. He
carried a large, brown case. Axton's brother. Morgan stiffened.
"Morgan Hyland? I'm Stefan Axton. Good to meet you." He
shook Morgan's hand vigorously, but in a friendly, not
overpowering manner. As he set up his portable blood bank, he
looked around. "Can't say I approve of my brother's choice of
friends."
"Hey, you said that, not me. So why are you doing this?"
He looked genuinely hurt. "I'm a doctor."
"Sorry. I shouldn't have doubted— I guess you must be pretty
busy, to have to come this late."
He waved it off. "I spend far too much time cleaning up after
my brother. Atonement, I suppose. Our father was a preacher,
you see; missionary work. Moved us here from rural Florida when
we were kids. I was thirteen, Dieter fifteen. Terribly
impressionable ages at which to be uprooted, and thirty-five years
ago a difficult time for roots to regrow" he said, as if that explained
it. "But no, eight o'clock wasn't my idea. Dieter said I couldn't
come any earlier. To be honest, I'd rather be sacking out with a hot
toddy and a good book. If we had light, that is. Now just sit
back..."
Morgan simmered. Axton never intended Morgan to get home
any earlier. He'd lied. Desiree was going to be worried sick, and
all because of that asshole Axton. Someday Morgan knew Axton
would get what he deserved; Morgan just wished he'd be there to
see it. Yet his brother seemed well-adjusted, even a decent guy.
Maybe he'd been adopted.
"Preemies have it pretty rough. I don't envy you, Mr.
Hyland," Stefan said as they finished up.
"Yeah. Just not prepared for life yet."
"I'll get this to Greenlane hospital. I understand there's some
way they'll get it to Middlemore?"
Morgan nodded.
"Good luck, Mr. Hyland. And a piece of advice. Have as little
to do with my brother as you can." He stuck out his hand.
Morgan shook it resolutely.
Desiree was already asleep when he finally made it home at
ten. They'd taken to retiring to bed shortly after sunset, there
being little else to do in the dark. Morgan tried to slip into bed
quietly, but she awoke.
"Thank God! What happened? I was so worried!" She
reflexively clicked the useless switch of the nightstand's lamp.
"Shh-shhh, you'll wake Matty." He explained where he'd
been.
"Shit." She paused. "You can't go back there. You can't work
for them."
"What choice do I have?" He said it forcefully, but he knew he
had a choice, a most terrible one. Somewhere out in the living
room was his draft notice.
"But there are so many people who need your help more. I
called and got us night jobs at Papakura Steel and Brass. They
have a generator, but they feed the grid during the day so they
work at night." It was funny, she thought in passing, how words
like "the grid" had become everyday coinage. "They make bolts
and pipes and sheet metal things, stuff like my dad does. It's
really important work. Construction and repair throughout New
Zealand depends on this place. Their inventory systems are
broken, so we'll be helping manually. So you don't have to go
back to Axton. The pay isn't very good, but we'll get by. You
could go find some other day work. We've already got your blood
for the transfusion. What can Axton do?"
Morgan lay quietly in the dark. "I don't know. I'll hate myself
for working on a drug-smuggling program. But I don't think these
are the kind of people you want to double-cross. At the very least
they'd turn us in to the police as terrorists. At the worst..."
Desiree sighed loudly. "What are we going to do?"
"Well, there's..."
"You can't leave us. I'm not letting you get drafted. That's not
an option."
"Desi, that may be our only option. I can't sell my soul to
Axton. I need to do something real, something constructive, not
clerical work. And if I help Axton's friends, I'm preying on the
helpless just like the Strong are. The draft thing pays well, and I'll
be out of Axton's reach."
"Morgan, you have a two-month's premature son. He needs
your blood, and only your blood. You can't leave. Not even the
draft board would make you."
He threw up his hands. It was so black even he couldn't see
the gesture. "It's lose-lose, honey."
"Let's sleep on it," she said. She nuzzled against him.
Morgan lay awake, wondering if he could slip her arm off him,
pack a bag, and sneak out without waking her. No, that was just
as cowardly as working for drug smugglers. But he had to honor
his draft notice. It was the only choice. No, it was no choice, but
the only one. He finally drifted off to a restless sleep.
When he woke, to gaily singing birds who evidently hadn't
been told the civilized world had cracked, Desiree and Matty had
set out a full breakfast for him: Two nutri-bars, half a glass of
watery milk, and a slice of hard bread with a thin layer of
strawberry jam.
"What's the big occasion?" he asked.
"Hey, sailor," Desiree said, coming over and throwing her
arms around his neck. "Thought you might like a decent meal
'fore you ship out." She gave him a big squeeze, held him at arms
length as if to memorize his face. "I packed you a bag with your
favorite clothes," she said. "Write me a letter when you get to
Boston, okay?"
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