"Jay Lake - The Dead Man's Child" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lake Jay)

All of the children stop breathing as if wired to the same switch. We are suddenly quiet as Daddy, quiet
as the dead. I can hear the grass crinkle beneath us, the grumbling of distant sheep, the thump of dampers
in the air recycling system high above, the gentle hiss which underlies all of Ship's moments and motions.
That is when I realise Mr Grieve does not breathe either. Have I always known this?

One by one my fellow students come back online, little puffs of air expelled or drawn in like the venting
of so many small pressure vessels. Finally I open my eyes to see Mr Grieve, yet unbreathing, watching
me. His own eyes are half-lidded. He seems impossibly old, in his purple cargo vest and balloon pants,
shiny head, his eyes glinting like ball bearings in a tray of lube. His skin is slick as ice on a leaky nitrogen
line, and just as pale. It finally occurs to me to wonder if my teacher is human.

"Subtle, Marguerite," he says. No part of his body moves except his face, his lips bending their way into
a smile that seems no more real than the smiling of my girlhood dolls, now abandoned in the drawer
beneath my bunk. Mostly abandoned.

Then Mr Grieve stirs to life, and is once more an old man. Why had I thought him not breathing? His
chest rises and falls beneath his vest, like everyone's. He spreads his arms. "Class, take note of
Marguerite's timing. She has waited until a few days before her matriculation to ask a question that might
ordinarily provoke difficulty, or even punishment. Yet she knows I am not likely to disrupt the upcoming
Festival of Choosing in the name of discipline. She has a question, a difficult question, possibly even
dangerous, and she asks it openly so that each of you will see what consequences pertain."

He leans close, catching our eyes pair by pair. "Sometimes, in the learning circle, things can be said that
we would not repeat at dinner, or seated before the council, or out tending sheep. Her question, and any
answer I might choose to give to it, are in that class of unrepeatable things. We call this hidden
knowledge. It is often concealed in stories, lies told to children for their betterment and safety. But
Marguerite is almost done being a child, and so she casts aside childish lies and asks for hidden
knowledge." Mr Grieve reaches out to almost touch me. "I shall answer your question with a question.
Tell us about your father, young lady, and then if you have earned it, I shall tell you about the high lines."
###
The Tale of the Captain and the Pilot
Once upon a timeline the Captain left the bridge and walked among the people of His Ship. Though Ship
is endless, being bounded by the hull and by time itself, Ship is not truly infinite. Even so, among the
Captain's powers are the will to cross a hundred frames at a single step, the strength to pass through a
dozen local-years in a single breath.

The Captain chanced to pass down a corridor guised as an old beggar in cloth-of-gold, carrying a power
rod for a staff, His begging bowl overflowing with barleycorn. In the corridor He came upon a man
reviewing the Regulations at a dusty terminal, humming and happy at his work. This caught the Captain's
fancy, for there are few who study the Regulations save when sitting for examination, or as recondite
punishment for some infraction.

"Are you a felon, good man?" He asked.
The studying man was startled, for the Captain moved silent as the orbiting stars, and he had not heard
His approach. "Why no, friend," he said nervously. The Captain made a strange beggar indeed.
"Then why study the Regulations?"
The man shrugged. "For my own betterment, and perhaps the betterment of Ship."
"But you are not Crew," the Captain persisted.
"Who is? No one has seen Crew since my grandfather's day, at the least."