"Ian R. MacLeod - Papa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

and the geodome, I see the distant Earth; a tiny blue globe.
тАЬRemember, Ag? That party.тАЭ
From somewhere, Agatha chuckles. тАЬAnd you in that getup.тАЭ
Faces. Dancing. Gleaming bodies. Parakeet colors. Someone leaps ten, fifteen feet into the air. I
shudder as a hand touches me. I smell AgathaтАЩs scent, hear her saying something thatтАЩs drowned in
music. I canтАЩt tell whether sheтАЩs in VR or on the patio.
тАЬThis goes on for ages. You know, Papa, fun at the time, butтАж IтАЩll run it forward.тАЭ
I hear myself say, тАЬThanks.тАЭ
Then, Blam! IтАЩm lying on my back on the patio. The deckchair is tipped over beside me.
тАЬYouтАЩre okay? Papa?тАЭ
AgathaтАЩs leaning down over me out of the sky. Strands of hair almost touching my face, the fall of her
breasts against her white cotton blouse.
тАЬYou sort of rolled off your chairтАжтАЭ
I nod, pushing up on my old elbows, feeling the flush of stupid embarrassment, the jolt on my back
and arse and the promise of a truly spectacular bruise. Black. Crimson. Purple. Like God smiling down
through tropical clouds.
AgathaтАЩs helping me as I rise. IтАЩm still a little dizzy, and IтАЩm gulping back the urge to be sick. For a
moment, as the endorphins advance and re-group in my bloodstream, I even get a glimpse beyond the
veil at the messages my body is really trying to send. I almost feel pain, for Chrissake. I blink slowly,
willing it to recede. I can see the patio paving in shadow and sunlight. I can see the cracked, fallen box of
the little VR machine.
тАЬHey, donтАЩt worry.тАЭ
Strong arms place me back in my deckchair. I lick my lips and swallow, swallow, swallow. No, I
wonтАЩt be sick.
тАЬAre you okay? YouтАжтАЭ
тАЬIтАЩm fine. Is that thing repairable? Can I have a look?тАЭ
Saul immediately gives the VR box back to me, which makes me certain itтАЩs irretrievably busted. I lift
the cracked lid. Inside, itтАЩs mostly empty space. Just a few silver hairs reaching to a superconductor ring
in the middle.
 тАЬThese machines are incredible, arenтАЩt they?тАЭ I find myself muttering.
тАЬPapa, they turn out this kind of crap by the million now. They make them fragile тАЩcos they want them
to break so you go out and buy another. ItтАЩs no big deal. Do you want to go inside? Maybe itтАЩs a bit hot
for you out here.тАЭ
Before I can think of an answer, IтАЩm being helped back inside the house. IтАЩm laid on the sofa in the
cool and the dark, with the doors closed and the shutters down, propped up,on cushions like a doll. Part
of me hates this, but the sensation of being cared for by humans instead of machines is too nice for me to
protest.
I close my eyes. After a few seconds of red darkness, my corneas automatically blank themselves
out. The first time they did this, IтАЩd expected a sensation of deep, ultimate black. But for me at
leastтАФand Doc Fanian tells me itтАЩs different for all of his patientsтАФwhite is the color of absence. Like a
snowfield on a dead planet. Aching white. Like hospital sheets in the moment before you go under.


тАЬPapa?тАЭ
тАЬWhat time is it?тАЭ
I open my eyes. An instant later, my vision returns.
тАЬYouтАЩve been asleep.тАЭ
I try to sit up. With ease, Agatha holds me down. A tissue appears. She wipes some drool from off
my chin. The clock in the room says seven. Nearly twilight. No need to blink; my eardrums are still on.
Through the open patio doors comes the sound of the tide breaking on the rocks, but IтАЩm also picking up