"Christopher Hinz - Paratwa 03 - The Paratwa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hinz Christopher)

Gillian's last visit to Sirak-Brath had been over half a century ago, and tonight's smog seemed much
worse than any he remembered from that first sojourn, in 2307. Back then, the periodic onslaughts of
dirty air had not seemed so conspicuous, the haze so impenetrable. He would have expected that during
his fifty-six years of stasis sleep, legitimate technical improvements would have contributed to making the
air invisible again.

But despite the imminent threat of the returning Paratwa starshipsтАФa threat whose closing horizon lately
had spawned bitter tensions throughout the populace of the Irryan ColoniesтАФday-to-day scientific and
technical advancements were still under the control of E-Tech, the powerful institution whose tenets
essentially served to limit the degree of change. E-Tech's two-and-a-half-century-old idealтАФto prevent
wild permutations in the social structure, like those that had decimated the Earth during the Apocalypse
of 2099тАФmade it difficult for a Colony to alter the status quo. Sirak-Brath's smog served to illustrate the
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downside of E-Tech's otherwise noble cause.

Sirak-Brath had other problems as well. It was popularly considered to be the black sheep of the Irryan
ColoniesтАФthe cylinder denizens of the other two hundred and sixteen orbiting space islands could point
to with disdain. No matter how bad your home Colony might be in a particular respect, Sirak-Brath was
probably worse. The industrial cylinder boasted the highest crime rates, the dirtiest streets, and the most
consistently corruptible politicians. Many non-mainstreamed Costeaus, black marketeers, and high-tech
smugglers called it home.

The alley began to curve to the left, and a soft breeze brought an oppressive odor of untreated sludge.
Gillian glanced over his shoulder, saw the pale remaining light from the side street, nearly two blocks
away, slowly compress into nothingness, and the heavy barred gate, through which Impleton had led
them into this service corridor, disappear. Now, only the smog-reflected light from above remained to
guide their footsteps.

Gillian closed his eyes, listened to the night: the dull omnipresent hum of heavy machinery, distant sirens
of local pa-troller or E-Tech Security vehicles en route to fresh crime sites, their own footsteps, flapping
across the wet pavement, an occasional echo of a human voice, amplified to prominence by the acoustic
qualities of this artificial canyon. Sounds that were recognizable aspects of Sirak-Brath. Sounds that
carried no threat of danger. But there was still time.

The alley continued its steady curve to the left, on a sweeping tangent, until finally they were walking
perpendicular to their original direction. Fresh bright light appeared up ahead; the canyon walls peeled
back to reveal a cul de sac where nuke breeder joined organic soak-dye manufacturer, their common
bulkhead a monolithic eruption of greasy pipes and spiraling twill tubes. It was power distribution
machinery combined with an overworked pollution control grid. The entire conglomeration had been
designed to serve both industries and probably others as well, whose sterns would be butting against the
far side of the towering mech-wall.

Buff and Impleton became crisp silhouettes as they headed into the light, the fresh illumination provided
by a series of globed lamps positioned ten feet above the dank floor. Buffs hairless pate, cosmetically
scarred by a series of twisting blue and red linesтАФthe deliberate handiwork of luminescent