"Kathleen Ann Goonan - The Bride of Elvis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goose Mother)

She gave her curls a final, swift brush and fastened back one side of her hair with a rhinestone barrette that spelled
out ELVIS.
She felt a bit haughty as she left her room in the Bride's Hall. If you didn't have the Lineage, you had nothing. And
she had it. In spades. It was one reason she was a Bride.
In the kitchen, which was empty, she fixed herself some instant coffee, all she liked in the morning unless she was a
tad hungry, and then she had ten or eleven microwave sausage biscuits. The four other Brides were still asleep, of
course, but there were usually some snotty Techs running around in their slick gray suits and belts jammed with all
kinds of what-not and gadgets. They though they were so great. They didn't realize that without the Brides, the race
just couldn't continue. Rita in particular was a jerk. She always got on Darlene's nerves, stepping aside and bowing
when she went by, saying, "Make way, everyone, wow, it's a Bride."
Darlene lit her first Marlboro of the day and opened the cooler door to get a fresh sheaf of gladiola to put in the
vases around Elvis' pedestal. The thick, dark green stalks were cool in her hand. She slipped her feet into the white
satin heels she'd carried with her, opened the back door, and walked down the path to the Tomb.
 The small pavilion that held Elvis was in the Meditation Garden. She reflected, as usual, as she passed the perfectly
manicured trees that lined the path, on how fortunate she was to be a Bride. That, along with the Hearings, always got
her in the proper frame of mind for putting up with all the fat, sweating mutants (and some thin, pretty ones too, now,
Darlene, don't be evil) for the next eight hours.
It was always comforting to see Him there, all ready for the coming Redemption. He'd been put in a plexiglass
pyramid showcase years ago, once they realized that the Redemption might take longer than they thought. That was
the best way, the Committee had decided, to keep control of everything. A bunch of rabble-rousers who called
themselves the Band of the King were always demanding more access, but they were just ineffective young upstarts
for the most part, jealous because the Lineage of many of the members was human-tinged, though they weren't
full-blown mutants. Ugly folks, ugly in the way they acted. Darlene shivered.
Calmed by the spring flowers that flanked the pavilion, Darlene saw that the sky was becoming overcast. The sun
was hidden now, and the air smelled like rain. She climbed the five low marble steps up to the stone door, which was
inscribed with angels and guitars. She raised her wrist to scan the door open, stopped. Her arm hung in the air.
The door was already open, just an inch. Her breath stuck in her throat: she stood on the threshold as fear flooded
through her. The lights weren't working; she fumbled around on the wall next to the door and got the backup panel
open, found the light button and flicked it with her long fingernail.
The plexiglass lid was propped open. Someone, someone with access... Darlene began to shake. The fat old guy
just wasn't there. Lead wires dangled over the guitar-embossed pedestal.
Her cigarette fell from her fingers and smoldered on the pink shag rug. Maybe, she told Koell later, when she had to
explain, she felt that it was her fault and that all their plans and dreams were ruined, blasted by the indigenous idiots
on this backward planet they had to live on. Mingled in the back of her mind were the threats of the Band of the King.
They kept saying they had to take matters into their own hands if anyone ever wanted to see the ship again -- that is,
they said, if such a ship even existed. Some of them, backsliders, were idiots enough to doubt.
Struck by waves of anxiety, she didn't stop to think that security was the Tech's job, or about anything, except that
the other Brides would have her head as soon as they saw this, and if they froze it, they'd do it in a way so that she
couldn't regenerate.
All her fear soul rose up through her throat, white-hot, as pure as a Gospel wail. "He's gone. He's gone!"
She ran right out through the Music Gate, using her wrist scanner to open it without thinking twice. Didn't care who
was looking. Panicked. She ran right out onto Elvis Presley Boulevard, screaming her fool head off. And met Roy.
He pulled up in front of her at the stoplight in a battered white F-100 Ford pickup with double back wheels and a
custom extra-long bed. She was breathing hard and letting out a little sob at the end of each breath and knew, in the
back of her mind, that she was quite a sight in her silver miniskirt, lacy blouse, and white satin heels, still holding the
glads in her left hand.
She stared right through the window at the kind-faced man, who was handsome too, let's not mince words here,
with keen blue eyes, black hair, and a short, black beard. His wide shoulders were hunched over the wheel, and his
long lanky arms stopped while reaching up for the column shift as he stared right back at her. He leaned over and
opened the door. "Get in, little lady, get right on in here."