"James Patrick Kelly - Big Guy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

Some clients liked it better that way. But it was 22:52 and he was tired of staring through the blue
flickering gloom at other people's furniture. Besides, it wasn't his kink. If he had to look at someone
having sex, he'd rather watch himself. With Cat.

Could be she lived up near the bow. Or on the boat deck. The thought of hauling himself up five flights
of narrow stairs made Murph dizzy. The most exercise he got was eight steps to the door or the head.
What if she was one his clients? He wasn't even sure she was a woman. Once she showed as a thin,
twentyish man with strong thighs and a relentless appetite. Her true sex was yet another mystery Murph
meant to penetrate. He had already decided it didn't make any difference. She was still Cat. A name. An
attitude. Black fur. Just so long as she didn't livetoo far away.

Murph had spent the last seven hours watching eighty-six sitesтАФforty-seven of his own clients,
thirty-nine of Bumpus'sтАФin order to earn enough free time to link to Way Out. Murph's list alone was
heavy enough to mash the average independent op flat against his screens. Eighteen residences, all on the
upper decks, nine shops that sold everything from bottle gardens to heroware, five takeouts: pizza,
burger, squeeze, krill and Mexican, four shrinks, three doctors, three app repair services, a lawyer, an
acupuncturist, a roomdresser, a dance/defense studio, and a 24 hour daycare. But Murph was no
average op. He was a champion. His sites had the lowest incursion rate, real and virtual, of any contract
op on the ship. Murph was proud that none of these so-called suicides had turned up onhis list. He didn't
mind what being the best had cost him. Sure, it would be easier working regular eight hour shifts for some
corporate client like the hospital or CDM or Maxit. But then a pushy boss would try to squeeze him into
a diet. Drag him to fucking meetingsтАФhe'd worked for suits before. Besides they paid in noodles. What
good was free time if he couldn't afford Way Out? Or the kind of custom heroware that impressed a
joyride like Cat?

Bumpus checked in at 23:07, filling the entire right screen of Murph's cabin. тАЬSorry I'm late.тАЭ Normally
he was a twitchy mouse of a man with liquid gray eyes. Tonight he had the faded, copy-of-a-copy look
of someone who has just jammed a month's worth of living into a couple of hours. Murph knew that
look. He'd seen it in his mirror. тАЬHad to clean up.тАЭ Bumpus opened a window to show Murph his blood
workup. The scrubbers had brought his alcohol level down to .02, neocaine to .005. тАЬAny more
suicides?тАЭ

тАЬNot on our lists.тАЭ Murph accepted the report. тАЬYou owe the government sleep?тАЭ

тАЬNot until the weekend, soonest. And I just boosted.тАЭ

Sleep was pure downtime. All the best ops stayed boosted as much as possible. Ultramen like Murph
preferred to pay sleep debt in one lump sum. The minimum daily requirement for a working op was two
hours and Murph was always working. Once a week he had to burn fourteen precious hours of his free
time in bed. тАЬOkay,тАЭ Murph said, тАЬI've got thirty-two active sites on my side. Looking at twenty-nine of
yours.тАЭ

He briefed Bumpus on both lists. It was quieter than usual because a few places had closed for the
Labor Day weekend. Some of Murph's residential clients could actually afford to leave the ship. Bumpus
had just moved on board a couple of years ago and was still struggling to build his list. So far he had
mostly C & D deck types. The only vacations they had time for were virtual. Like Bumpus, who lived
down in what used to be the engine room. He was an old forty-six, already vague and a little forgetful. It
was what happened when you spent too many years being in too many places at once. Bumpus was fine
for the occasional free time or sleep swap but Murph didn't think he had either the dedication or attention
span for independent round-the-clock security anymore. He was nobody's champion.