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

Park world.
Oh, God, he was getting "maudlin," as his mother would say. It was exactly why
she didn't allow him any alcohol, even weak and watered as this. If he drank any
more, he'd become "rash," and then where would Queendom civilization be?
"Does anyone else want more beer?" he asked, looking around. But they were still
ignoring him, which was probably good. He'd just order for himself, then, maybe
even pay. Per the waitress' instructions, he leaned over and rapped on the
deck's ratty old railing. It rang solidly under his knuckles, though, more like
plastic or soft stone than wood. Because yeah, of course, it wasn't wood at all,
just a clever wellstone facsimile. Why would knocking on a wooden rail summon a
waitress?
Suddenly, his paranoid fantasy seemed less paranoid, less fantastic. If that
rail wasn't full of microphones already, it easily could be on a moment's
notice. If the constabulary had tracked the boys here, for example, or if the
cafe staff had decided something suspicious was going on. Hell, the building
could even make that judgment itself; most of the symptoms of human intelligence
could be duplicated with a wellstone hypercomputer the size of a fingernail.
Conrad's own house was always scolding him, checking up on him, ratting him out
to his parents ...
The black-haired, fiery-lipped Xmary reappeared, inserting herself deftly
between Conrad and Bascal. "I found someone who can help you, Bas. Several
someones."
Bascal looked up at her, and the confidence was back in his eyes. "Excellent.
Thank you. And will these someones require payment?"
"I didn't ask, but I don't think so. They seemed pretty eager. I'm sure you
realize, you're kind of a symbol around here."
"The Prince who Won't Be King? Lord of the oppressed? Spokeschild for the
permanent children? I can't imagine." Bascal flourished comically with his arms,
but couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Take me to your
underground, then. We'll see what mischief this town can endure."
"Bascal," Conrad warned, raising his voice above the general hubbub, "We should
get out of here. This place isn't as run-down as it looks. This isn't wood, it's
wellstone. It could be a Ч "
The prince arched an eyebrow, and not in amusement. "There's business at hand,
boyo. Connections to be made, a whole underground to be mobilized. One way or
another, Garbage Day is a party I intend to throw."
Conrad became aware of some noise in the street, rising up like the soft
clickety-click of a few dozen tap shoes. Like marching boots, approaching at a
trot? Like the platinum feet of robots, dancing fluidly along the street?
"Bloodfuck!" Ho Ng called out, from his seat along the railing. "Constabulary
coming. Lots of them."
"Ah," Bascal said, and his tone was of regret, not surprise. "All right, lads,
hit the ground running. Scatter for me, and do as much damage as possible. Brew
me up a genuine riot."
Conrad was surprised, and afraid, and maybe not entirely sorry they'd been
caught. He looked Bascal in the eye, almost challengingly. "What are you going
to do?"
"What do you think?" the prince snapped, then walked to the railing and punched
it with his signet ring, producing a kind of porcelain clink. At the point of
impact, there was a momentary sparkle of blue-white light, fading quickly to