"George R. R. Martin - WC 9 - Jokertown Shuffle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

They brought in a case for me to judge today. "The gov's court," they call it,
mockingly. Still, they bring in these cases because I insist on it. Okay, let's
be honest-the usual "justice" on the Rox is violent and final. Actually, they
come only when the antagonists aren't already dead or maimed.
I knew who was guilty before they dragged either one of them in front of me. I
always do.
Blaise escorted them, but Kelly was with the groupKelly whom I find so achingly
attractive, who is still so innocent in her way. I like to watch her; I like to
fantasize about how it might be if I were normal or if I were one of them. I
could read vague, contradictory feelings as Kelly approached. Darker, more
violent thoughts eddied from Blaise and K. C. Strange, another one of the
jumpers, while fright mingled with relief from Slimeball, the joker they were
hauling toward the Administration Building.
I told everyone around me that company was coming, and chuckled. My joker guards
came to attention around the lobby. Kafka came scuttling in from his workroom,
his mind still snared in the maze of blueprints he'd been studying. Around me,
jokers turned to watch: the ever-loyal Peanut, Mothmouth, Video, Shroud,
Chickenhawk, Elmo, Andiron-a dozen others around the floor or looking over the
lobby's high balcony.
Eddies in the currents of thoughts. I could feel the rest of the Rox too: File,
lost in rapture-ecstasy in some hovel in the north end of the island; Charon,
heading out from the Rox toward the siren call of some joker in New York. My
guards had tightened their grips on their weapons.
Blaise's little group entered the lobby noisily, throwing a blast of cold air
into the building. Slimeball was being dragged by main force between K. C. and
Kelly. Blaise was shouting before they were even halfway to me, ranting.
Kafka cleared his throat. His carapace rattled like a pair of cheap castanets.
At the same time, Shroud slammed the bolt home on his .22 Remington single-shot
rifle. I caught amusement from Blaise (fucking popgun). Blaise isn't the psi


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lord his grandfather is; his mindshields leak, dribbling thoughts like an
incontinent child.
Kafka began scolding Blaise. "Show a little decorum, please." Like a parent
lecturing his son--it went over about that well too. "We've discussed this
before. The governor deserves your respect. That's as much a part of your rent
as anything else."
Blaise glared at Kafka. I caught an image of a roach being squashed beneath a
huge foot. Little fucking insect. I laughed again. Then the thought drifted away
as he looked up at me. He titters like a goddamn schoolgirl. So fucking gross.
The smell's worse than usual.
Almost in response, a rippling went through me, along with a sense of release
and relief. I could feel the thick sludge of bloatblack rolling down my sides.
There was a sound: soft, squelching, nasty, like thick mud being squashed
between two hands.
"Governor," Blaise said then, and he gave the title a big mocking lilt. I
ignored him, paying more attention to Kelly than Blaise; she was trying,