"Stephen Kenson - Technobabel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenson Stephen)

on my skin.
I hear the distant sounds of the city, the constant rumble of noise that most
city-dwellers ignore almost completely in their daily lives. I hear the voices
of cars, from the bass rumble of diesel engines to the high whine of electric
motors powering small commuter cars. From time to time a horn blares out its
distant cry of anger or warning. The voices of the city whisper and speak to
me, and I know there is danger.
Then I hear another voice, much closer, which is speaking to someone else.
"There he is," the voice says and I know he is talking about me.
Then another voice, deep and gravelly. "Just like Crawley said he would be.
I'll give him that, Weizack, that freak may be weird, but his information is
right on the money."
Weizack laughs, more like a humorless bark. "You should talk, chummer. You
ain't winning no beauty prizes yourself."
Weizack's partner growls, a low, throaty sound. "Watch it, chummer. I may look
like something outta somebody's nightmare, but at least I ain't no fragging
ghoul. Let's just do this job and get the frag out of here. This place gives
me the creeps."
A rough hand grabs my jaw, and I feel a jolt of fear and surprise shoot
through my nerves. I want to push away the hand touching me and filling my
nostrils with the stench of overripe sweat and the smell of decay, but my body
refuses to obey me. My muscles remain limp and I lie like a dead fish on the
cool, hard ground as the hands turn my head to the side and blunt fingers
brash against the side of my neck.
"Hey," I hear Weizack's comrade say, his hot, rank breath blowing past my
face. "He's still jacked in."
"So unplug him. What's the big deal?"
The fingertips brush my neck again. I hear a faint metallic click and feel an
immediate and yawning sense of loss open up within me. He has taken something
from me. Something very important, my connection to something larger and
greater than I am. I am truly alone now, and helpless against

these strangers. I try to move, or even open my eyes, but I can't. It feels
like my brain is detached from the rest of my body. Like I have forgotten how
to use it somehow. The part of me that is awake and aware floats somewhere,
detached, unable to make the connection to make a move or a sound.
"Fragging chipheads," the deep voice grumbles. "Why they wanna burn out their
brains beats the drek outta me. Feedin' stuff straight into your brain is
totally fragged up. All of that techno-trash, just for the sake of gettin'
high."
"You ever try slottin' sims, Riley?" Weizack asks his partner.
"No way. Those things'll frag you up for good. Not even the beetles, just the
soft-core drek. My cousin was a sim-chipper, and all he did was spend the
whole day sitting around slotting chips and living in a fraggin' fantasy
world. Couldn't hold down a job or nothin'. Finally cooked his brain slotting
something he shouldn't of. Cheap Hong Kong trash. You wanna get trashed, I say
do it the old fashioned way-with a bottle or something. These brain-burners
frag you up but good."
"What about all of this stuff?" Weizack says, his voice coming from close by
and above where I lie. He must be standing near my head, looking down at me.