"mayflies04" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)
Chapter 4
Bad Medicine
The migrations began about a year after the alien had glided away-some three months after the main wave of suicides had crested.
At first it was an individual thing. Nick Griffith, say, in 148 NW-A-6, realized that above his suite lay a hundred-some empty levels, each big enough to hold a million aliens. CentComp insisted they were empty, but they just might conceal squads, battalions, even divisions of six-legged mind rapers.
And so Griffith, that fire hydrant of a man, slept poorly. Every corridor noise awakened him, even the routine fluffs of doused lights and the soporific hum of the ventilators. This bout with insomnia was accompanied by ceiling-watching and shadow-suspecting and soul-fleeing-because he didn't have quite the courage to crawl within himself and discover why he'd reacted as he had. Pretending nothing was wrong inside, he dumped all the blame outside. It was Koutroumanis' fault, or CentComp's. Not his. How could it be? He'd never in his entire life wanted to make mud pies out of his own shit; obviously, he'd done it that day only because they'd made him. It was their fault. And CentComp's, because it had let them in. And Koutroumanis', because he'd run HAASCIP. But not his.
After months of unacknowledged self-loathing, then, he rousted his-gaunt, cranky wife and his edgy kids from the rumpled, sweaty beds where they weren't sleeping, either, and said, "Come on, we're moving downstairs."
Of course Maibell heaved a secret sigh of relief. Having much face to protect, though, she propped her pillow-marked cheek on her hand, batted her puffy brown eyes, and said, "Afraid to live up here?"
At which Griffith-already kicking himself for not having been proud enough to wait for her to propose the move-bridled and bristled. "No, of course not! It's just, uh, just I get tired of taking the dropshaft when I want to go see my friends, might as well live right around the corner from them if we can, save us all a lot of time and effort and shut the fuh up before I belt you one, hear?" He ordered a cup of coffee from Central Kitchens and sipped moodily at its bitterness.
Solemn-eyed, Tommy and Tammy started to pack: a pair of pants, a shirt, some sandals, and, once the frivolities were done with, they hunted up the important stuff: the dead toad from the 1 New England Park, the cracked marbles in their vinyl sack, the dog-eaten red rubber ball . . . meanwhile Maibell floated around with a certain expression on her face: a touch of an upturn at the lips; eyebrows a millimeter too high; a faintly weary air of humoring the madman . . .
Griffith consulted the wall-unit. "CC, what you got for us on Level One?"
"I-SE-A-IO is vacant. Should I reserve it for you?"
"Do that," he said. And down they went, abandoning the lonely silences disturbed only by memories, by echoes of shuffling alien feet . . .
By the end of 2602, the entire population-of the Mayflower had jammed onto Levels 1-7. The clamor loosened rivets; the smell burned out ventilators. Personal Work Areas had been partitioned into boardinghouses-front yards became crowded campgrounds-bedrooms were dormitories for dozens of children grateful for the reassuring night-noises of the others.
To top it all off, the Central Computer had its own problems. Servos turned spastic, spattering the halls with grease and paint and melted rubber. Kitchen outlets would fly open on steaming twelve-course meals that no one had ordered. Microphones mimicked passengers' voices to deliver commands that had to be countermanded at once. "Acts like it snorted itself out," commented Griffith warily, as yet another eight-kilo, thirty-nine flavor banana split appeared. "Like it's listening to tapes instead of what's now."
But it became ridiculous-and aesthetically unappealing to boot-so it wasn't unnatural that Sylvia Dunn Stone would have her sensibilities offended.
Her idea was that they should all move to the grassy expanses of the 41 Great Plains Park, where "you can see from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and there are only a limited number of access points. Everyone would feel much safer there."
Griffith, still embarrassed that he'd forced his family to move, even though all were sleeping better for it, felt obliged to point out that the Park's four quadrants totaled 45,000 square meters. "Even squeezed together like we are here," he said, "that's only room for nine thousand of us."
"Silly boy," she said, patting, then pinching, him on cheek. "We have the walls and ceiling, too! There's room enough for all."
And so the trek began again. Central Stores churned out canvas tents, plastic ground cloths, and nylon sleeping bags (although it could control the climate of the park. it had no intention of altering that climate to suit the whimsy of the passengers. If they wanted to live there, fine, but they'd have to accept it as it was. And no fuhng around with the bison, either, because those mothers had tiny red eyes and lousy tempers.) About half the equipment was damaged in delivery and had to be replaced. Then, seventy-five thousand people, more or less, trudged through the crowded, odoriferous corridors and rose up the shafts to the park.
The first ones there laid claim to the park floor. Griffith, who'd been skeptical but fast stepping, took a rake to the dead grass and bison shit. The groundcloth went down. The tent went up. Sleeping bags covered the inside. They threw a sheet of plastic over the piles of clothing and accessories that wouldn't fit into the shelter, but couldn't be left out in the rain. Just when tempers were about to flare, safari-suited Sylvia Dunn Stone, preceded by her flowery perfume, came around to inspect:
"How nice, darlings, how ineffably quaint! I don't think, however, that you want to have that color around-don't you find it statuesome? It's that precise shade of blue that provoked them into such unguestly behavior-why don't you toss it in the disposal unit? And you know, dear, really, you should consider handicrafts-woodcarving or pottery or even painting, if you like; I'd be delighted to give you a few pointers-because they were rude because we didn't display the tremendous vitality of our native culture . . . yes, little boy, that is a nice toad, but hardly aesthetic-darlings, another thing we should develop is a code of etiquette, yes, indeed, because did you notice that they all gestured with a certain unutterable grace before they approached us? That was another black mark for us-we didn't have anything comparable, in the sense of protocol or etiquette-of course, CC should have taken care of it, but we can not allow ourselves to depend on a mere computer for the grace notes that delineate the difference between a human and an animal, so! We will be organizing a class-really, classes, because there are so many of us--in formal etiquette, and they'll begin next Monday, and bring your children. Ta-ta!"
And off she went, gaily waving her soft, slender hand, blatantly pleased that her artist's eye had so quickly noticed the colors that had given them offense, had picked up on their old-world style of bowing and sweeping.
Damp grass squelched under her flat-heeled shoes, and a tongue of mud-or worse-licked her instep. She looked down with distaste, and wondered who could arrange to have proper sidewalks installed. People could not live in grass and mud. Only animals did that.
Louis Tracer Kinney stood a hundred meters from Stone, watching her flutter her hands and run off at the mouth. Silly damn hat she was wearing.
"Whatta butt-bung," muttered his companion, Ted Krashan.
Kinney laughed; his Adam's apple jiggled like a Ping-Pong ball on a choppy sea. Tall, he had broad shoulders and hairy, muscular forearms. He was sixteen years old, but adults treated him as an equal. They were intimidated by his personality, which burned in his eyes like a torch. "That's sixdeed, but hell, she's useful. Never would have gotten everybody here if it weren't for her. Hey-how come I don't see guards over by the lock?"
Krashan rummaged in his bulging shirt pocket for a wrinkled sheet of paper. "Supposed to be Li and Flaks-don't know where the meth they are, though. Want me to find out?"
"Do that." He leaned against his tentpole-gingerly, because it wobbled-while the colorful hordes spread up the walls. They sure did look funny, pitching tents on holographic clouds.
Bots, he thought. Look at these dicers, sixty, seventy years old-taking orders from a kid. Shit. He slapped his right fist into his left palm. Can't decide which is worse-buncha bots, do everything you tell 'em huptwothree; or those anarcho-hedonists Sis hangs around with, bad influence on Irma, piss on the floor 'cause you tell 'em to use the taxer. He looked around the park, seeing alternately what was, and what might be. He had a dream, did Louis Tracer Kinney, a dream of a unified, purposeful Mayflower.
It came in flashes and patches, in symbols rather than words: points of light soaring through the dark sphere. Till now the sparks had been of a thousand colors, bursting from a common center through individual parabolas that paid no heed to the need for a grand design. He knew, beyond doubt, that he could direct those rockets, position and synchronize them into a wedge slicing through the night. Just give 'em something to aim at, he thought, and stamp on any that loose off on their own. But he was worried, because he sensed that focusing them would also homogenize them, and the warm pan-spectrum glow of diversity would fade into the paler, harsher light of unity. Can't decide!
But he had. He visualized the Mayflower churning through the endless black sea, and he knew, he knew it would again encounter hostility, and he-they-would need the clean sharp edge of a strong, single-minded society.
Dammit, he thought, if they'd waited just a few more years, I'd have been ready. I wouldn't have let them dice our cubes. I would have had an army at the locks, waiting for them. God, I hope they come back soon.
Kinney needed but one thing: weapons. Central Stores could produce, in a week, enough sidearms and rifles to equip a 25,000-man army. After another month, there'd be grenades and mortars and more for everybody. If only CC weren't so stubborn about them. He'd argued for days without being able to convince it that the guns were needed. But that was clear to everybody else. Hell, a hundred thousand aliens had run wild because nobody'd been armed.
He raised his quarterstaff and sighted down it, aiming at the bump between Griffith's shoulder blades. The dry plastic warmed his cheek. Slowly, he squeezed the absent trigger, imagined Griffith's jerky fall to his face, and sighed. If only it were a real laser-rifle! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! The heat would redden his skin; the light would lance out to the target . . . he'd feel safe, everyone would feel safe, and them-they wouldn't return, no sir, not if the men and women of the Mayflower could defend themselves.
He'd talk CC into it, somehow. Because next time-
Krashan emerged from a large gray tent, leading Li and Flaks and another man, a thin unshaven man with the nervous eyes of an owl-haunted mouse. "Hot input for you, chief-this guy dropped from upstairs, says he spotted Koutroumanis."
Kinney's eyes gleamed darkly. "Barnet Ioanni Koutroumanis?"
"Yeah, yeah," squeaked the thin man, "that's the one. I recognized his face from the holocasts-he's on 321."
"Thought he was dead," grunted Krashan.
"So'd I" admitted Kinney. Of the informant, he demanded, "Was he alone?"
"Sure! Who'd be with him?"
He slapped his staff into his open palm; its weight felt good. "Armed?"
"Huh?"
"Was he carrying a gun or anything?"
"Oh-no, no, nothing like that-I mean, he ran like hell when he saw me, you know? Thought he was gonna shit his pants, he was so scared."
"Three two one?"
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