"Michael Flynn - Wreck of The Rivers of Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

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тАЬBut, the captainтАЩs funeral,тАЭ said Nkieruke Okoye, the First Wrangler. тАЬShould we not be there, to show
respect?тАЭ The others had urged her forward, less from a great love for the late captain Hand, than from a
great loathing for hard work.

But Ratline was unmoved. He knew from experience that a wranglerтАЩs first goal in life was to avoid
work; just as his own was to protect his young charges from the temptations of idleness. He grinned in
what he thought was a friendly fashionтАФthough the effort fell short in the minds of the wranglersтАФand
said, тАЬIтАЩve seen a captain.тАЭ

And indeed, captains in his world were two-a-penny. HeтАЩd seen all of them, from Coltraine to Hand.
HeтАЩd seen them promoted, retired, resigned, and fired. Now heтАЩd seen one die. There were no other ways
he could think of to leave the bridge, so a milestone of sorts had been achieved.

Ratline was the oldest of the crew, and the only one to have been on the shipтАЩs Articles from the very
beginning. HeтАЩd been a cabin boy back then, proud in his elaborate uniform. Now he was all sinew and
scar tissue and if his worn and dingy coveralls constituted a uniform it was only through careless
nomenclature. Evermore and the other wranglers would never have believed itтАФtheir world was
bounded entirely by the presentтАФbut Ratline had been a handsome lad. Half his prettiness had come
from his uniformтАФred trim and epaulettes, gleaming brass buttons, MEMS fabric that rippled with
changing patterns at a whispered commandтАФbut the rest had lain in his features and in his voice and in
his carriage, which could (and often did) excite admiration with every stitch of uniform removed.

A tough life,the wranglers would tell each other when they thought about it at all, which was seldom, or
when they contemplated their masterтАЩs youth, which was never. Yet, it had been tough, and in ways that
wrangling cargo could never be. Cargo pods and strap cables had taken a finger off RatlineтАЩs left hand
and a hoist had once left a small depression in his skullтАФmass persists when even weight has fledтАФbut
other duties left other scars. There had been tasks for pretty, young cabin boys in the decadent years of
the Fifties that the more Apollonian Zeds would never countenance. Ratline never spoke of it. Society
then may have winked and nudged and leered, but little Timmy Ratline had been on the butt end, and his
smiles had been only for the tips.

тАЬHe never looks happy,тАЭ Ivar Akhaturian said after the wranglers had returned exhausted to their
quarters. He hoped that his comment did not sound critical of the cargo master (in case the berth held
him in reverence) nor too sympathetic (in case the berth despised him). Ivar was the newest of the
wranglers, anxious to make a good impression, uncertain how that might be done. He was a cade boy.
His mother had sold him to the ship тАЬfor a few years of seasoningтАЭ whenThe River had called at
Callisto. He received room and board and an education; his mother received his wages.

Okoye lashed herself to a clip-chair in the wranglersтАЩ common room and listened to the other three
chatter. As First Wrangler, she had spent the better part of three years shifting cargo under RatlineтАЩs eye,
and possessed a broader perspective on such matters. Indeed, she often thought of herself as acting cargo


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