"mayflies07" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

He forced himself to stop. Shutting his eyes, leaning back in his leather chair, regulating his breathing through an act of will, he ordered himself to relax. One muscle at a time. Start with the forehead-smooth it out, wipe away the frown. Loosen the jaw. Let the neck tendons slide back in place. Unclench the fists; untighten the biceps. Lower. Softer. Easier.
Twenty minutes later, he stirred. He was as calm as he'd ever be. Shuffling the papers into a neater stack, he dropped them into a brown cardboard box and tucked it under his arm. He left the suite after ruffling Abe's coppery hair, and telling him he'd ' be back soon.
A short walk led to Cereus' office: half a corridor, up 187 levels, and another half a corridor. Bored guards stood outside the door. Submitting to their rough-handed search was the part he didn't like.
"Is Mr. Cereus expecting you?" asked the female sentry, once her partner had declared him clean.
"Yes, he-well, I don't have an appointment, but he'll see me."
They checked, then told him to go in.
Within reigned well-ordered chaos-people, desks, papers, voices, wall charts-and he picked his way through it to Cereus' desk. "Morning, Greg."
"Hiya, Andy-hold on a minute." He swiveled his chair around to see the back wall. The door in it was half-open. "Good, we can talk straight out. Nobody's using the pri-room."
Figuera followed him into the small room off the office. Time had faded blue walls; the paint was peeling away from the metal. Stale smoke and staler sweat oozed from the shabby furniture. "Why are you people so crowded here? Lots of room on this level, isn't there?"
"Two things-psychology and "self-defense. Being this crowded gives us a sense of urgency, yon? We work harder. Plus, everybody's together, hears what everybody else is doing, and that cuts down on the number of memos." He chuckled. "Then, when all of us are in here, together, well . . . " He looked around. "It's easier to keep Iceface's servos out-and if they stay out, there's no way for it to reattach the wall-units." He gestured to the square behind his head, a square of clean, unblemished paint with two holes on it. Frayed wires dangled out of the holes. "We don't want it listening in, and God knows bleepspeak is too damn slow."
Figuera nodded, and sank into an armchair. "Good idea." The box slithered as he shifted his weight; he caught it before it slid off his lap.
"So what you got for us?" Eagerness infused Cereus' face.
"We can cut the Snowball out."
"How?"
"Need a lot of people real well synchronized," he warned. "What's the matter, your ventilators broken?"
"God only knows, been this stuffy since we moved in." He sniffed, and scowled. "We got the people, though. And I am, if I say so myself, one hell of a sychronizer."
"For sure." He lifted out a double handful of papers. "This room is secure?"
"Positive."
"All right-but we can't let the Snowball hear this, so you'll have to do all your arrangements inside this room-"
"Or rooms like it?" asked Cereus.
"Oh, yeah, sure. Or rooms like it. Or in bleepspeak. But if it hears what we're planning, it's not going to work. Can I get some coffee?"
"Sure." Pressing the intercom, he ordered two cups; an harassed aide brought them in cracked green mugs. When the aide had left, Cereus said, "So tell."
"Right." He took a sip, and wrinkled his nose. The coffee must have been brewed months ago. An oil slick made a mirror of its surface. "First, there are two computers-the Snowball, and this small one it uses as an auxiliary-funny thing about that, CC must have built it, because it's not shown-on the original blueprints . . . " He shook his head, and his fingers moved along the paper. "The way it uses it, the Snowball handles everything until it gets overworked, then it sheds part of its load onto the auxiliary, all the routine tasks. It keeps the non-routine ones for itself."
"So?" Cereus swallowed his coffee without reacting to its rancid bitterness.
"So I've written a program for the little one, and now, whenever it's handed something to do, it tells me what that function is-which means I know what it's controlling, you see?"
"Vaguely, but go ahead." He picked grounds off his tongue.
"What we're going to do is pack up the Snowball and keep it packed tight, while it hands over more and more functions to the auxiliary. At some point, it's going to delegate authority over the electric current. Once the auxiliary tells me it's handling the generators and all, I pop this new program tape into it." He took a plastic disk out of his jacket pocket, and laid it reverently on the table. "That tells the auxiliary to trip five specific circuit breakers-and to keep them off. Once they're tripped, the Snowball is isolated. It won't be able to communicate with its peripherals. And it won't be able to oppose us."
"The auxiliary's capable"-, of setting up the armaments factories?"
Figuera frowned. The problem with Cereus was that he was a monomaniac on weapons-he'd organized everything beautifully, and kept it all running, but the topic of guns somehow reared its cold head in every one of his conversations. It made his friends uneasy.
"Well?" prodded Cereus.
Figuera shrugged. "Sure. Anything the Snowball can, just, uh, not as quickly, or as many things at one time, yon?"
Cereus smiled. "Now, how do we jam up Iceface?"
"Here, let me-"
A coat hanger clattered in the far corner.
"What was that?"
"I don't know," answered Figuera, "came from the closet."
Cereus reached it in two strides, two long and silent strides. He motioned Figuera to flatten himself against the wall, then jabbed the open button. The door grated on its dusty tracks. A scowl darkened his face as he peered inside. "Get out."
A tall, broad-shouldered woman stepped into the pri-room. She had waist-length black hair and huge brown eyes. Her face was as white as her skirt. A thin, transparent wire drooped from her clenched right fist to the ornate brass buckle on the belt holding up her purple pants.
"Open your hand."
"No." She started to put it behind her back.
Cereus grabbed her wrist, and applied pressure to its base. Her fingers spread like the petals of a dying rose. "A microphone, huh?" He took it. "Give me your belt."
"No."
"Do I have to take that away, too?"
"All right." She undid it, whisked it through its loops, and surrendered it.
"Thank you." The two items clunked onto the table. "What's your name?"
"Mary Ioanni," she sighed. "What are you doing here?"
"None of your business." She looked at the marred paint of the far wall.
Cereus began to say, "Everything that goes on here is my-"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Figuera, disliking the color in Cereus' cheeks, and the pugnacious stance he'd adopted, and his upballing right fist, "I've heard that name . . . she's, uh, she's Stella Holfer's buddy, took over the Anti-landers when Stella got sick. Right?"
Her eyes landed on him like cold feet. "Right," she conceded: