"Garbage Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mccarthy Wil)

its surface in the accepted manner, rather than simply jamming it the way punk
kids were supposed to. "Plus a hundred-percent tip."
The slate chimed softly, acknowledging the transaction, and the young woman's
features softened a little. Bascal's face and voice and thumbprint and DNA
pattern all had to match against an account balance Ч he was good for the money.
Still a punk kid, but apparently not a thief or mooch. That tip wasn't going to
change her life or anything; all the necessities of life and most of its
luxuries were free for the faxing, or at least had downloadable free knockoffs.
And everything else had a free waiting list, so no matter how poor you were, you
knew your turn would eventually come. Penthouse apartment, whatever, just live
to be a million. But a tip was a nice gesture Ч traditional, polite Ч and a big
tip was nicer still. He didn't have to do that.
"I'll see what we can do."
"Thanks so much," Bascal agreed.
The black-haired girl had slipped away during the exchange. Shrugging, Bascal
sat down next to Conrad, who was worried and asked, "Can't they track you now?
The police, your parents? Spending money is always the giveaway."
"Oh, probably. But the account has ... certain security features that will slow
down a search."
"Oh. That's good, I guess."
The last rays of sunset were visible over the mountains, between gaps in the
apartment buildings on the river's far bank. From what Conrad could see, the
buildings themselves were in tasteful colors, not selling anything or trying to
be anything in particular. These were the homes of ordinary Queendom citizens,
with fax gates inside, possibly right there in the apartments themselves. Here
ended the Children's City, and there began the suburbs of the Queendom proper.
The Green Mountain Spire was dark most of the way up now, the sunlight glinting
redly off the top hundred meters or so, and inching upward with near-visible
speed. The cafe balcony itself hung over a precipitous three-meter drop, with a
small grassy bank beneath, and then the stony shallows of the Platte River,
which wasn't nearly as majestic as Conrad would have imagined: maybe twenty
meters across, and quite shallow enough to wade in. To the north and south there
were little sets of rapids, where men and women in glowing green kayaks paddled
down and, incredibly, back up again.
Where the grass ended, the river's banks were lined with a random jumble of
stones, and sticking up here and there were the concrete stubs of what probably
used to be bridges. Conrad couldn't imagine why they'd never been removed,
although they did lend an honest, unfinished sense to the area. Neither
pristinely wild nor immaculately groomed, just here.
It only took a minute for the waitress to return, first with their drinks, and
then again with platters of nacho chips, smothered in melted cheese and
surrounded by battlements of carrot and celery, zucchini, and olive.
"Here you go, hon," she said, dropping off the final tray in front of Bascal and
Steve and Ho and Conrad. "If you need anything, my name is Bernice. Just rap on
the wall, or the railing."
"My grandmother's name was Bernice," Bascal mused, when she was gone.
"Nice lady?" Ho Ng asked.
Bascal shrugged. "Never met her. She died, like, two hundred years ago, in
Catalonia. Mayor of a city. Fucking historical figure."
"Jesus H. Garbage," Ho cursed, in a show of solidarity. He was always saying