"Daniel Keys Moran - A Tale of the Continuing Time 04 - The AI War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moran Daniel Keys)

and become a holy man. In his great old age Swami Dave had moved the Krishna temple from Watseka
Avenue in Culver City to the new settlement at Ceres asteroid. It had been only natural for Swami Dave
to take the museum with him.

By 2080 the museum has grown far beyond its original boundaries. Sections of the asteroid's surface
have been turned over to holofields that recreate, life-size, the greatest art of the twentieth century.

Complete with copyright notices.

Reverend Andy radioed in; a sled carrying a pair of Security Services bodyguards, employed by the
museum, came out to pick them up.

As the sled was lifting from the downlot where the museum's curator kept her office, a pair of sleds
cycled through the SpaceFarers' Collective craft Vatsayama's cargo lock. The Vatsayama was docked
at an asteroid 180 klicks away from Ceres, after delivering supplies to the small Buddhist retreat there; its
sleds tumbled once to get pointed in the correct direction and then blasted out along the vector Trent had
given them.

They found the assassin hopelessly lost, just a short few degrees off the vector Trent had guessed,
tumbling around his own axis so quickly he'd grown dizzy and vomited in his helmet, so dispirited that he
did not even try to shoot at the SpaceFarers when they dropped a snakechain on him and towed him
back to the Vatsayama.

Trent couldn't get out of his suit with his ribs cracked; they disassembled his scalesuit in sections to get it
off him.

"Let's play Good Cop/Bad Cop," said Reverend Andy.

Sid Bittan, Captain of the Vatsayama, had met them at the airlock; she stood in the hatch to the infirmary
after Trent's scalesuit had been removed, a slim, attractive woman with white hair cut down to fuzz, and
watched a medbot tape Trent's ribs. "I'd space the bastard."

"That's not fair," Trent objected. "I always end up playing the Good Cop. It's boring."

Reverend Andy snorted. "They wouldn't let Gandhi play the Bad Cop either, okay? It's not my fault you
keep telling people violence is sinful. And they keep listening to you," he added pointedly.

"Let's play Bad Cop/Anti-Christ," Trent suggested.

Reverend Andy grinned at him. "Okay. I love playing the Anti-Christ."

"I'd space him," Captain Bittan repeated.

Standing in the Vatsayama's brig a meter away from the assassin, wearing magslips over his bare feet,
with his pressure suit removed and his broken ribs taped, Trent said, "So what's your name?"

The assassin, sitting on the cot in the Vatsayama's brig, stared mutely ahead. He looked American
Indian; no beard, and long black hair tied in a ponytail. He was only a few centimeters shorter than Trent,
Trent guessed, 190 centimeters or so -- tall for a downsider -- and roughly Trent's age, too, that
indeterminate period between twenty-five and first regeneration. He had been taken out of his suit and