"Steven Popkes - Holding Pattern" - читать интересную книгу автора (Popkes Steven)

Holding Pattern by Steven Popkes
Steven Popkes's previous contributions to our pages include "Tom Kelley's Ghost" and "The
Great Caruso." Like many of his stories, his latest is deceptively quiet--it doesn't have loud car
chases or big-budget special effects, but it's very effective nonetheless.
Tomas Coban looked over his cup of coffee, out his kitchen window, past the alleyway and toward the
river, to watch the drones hovering outside his window watching him. A single Russian EX400, looking
like nothing more than a lumbering blimp, suggested the Kremlin felt comfortable with the world today.
America wanted some attention since he could see at least a dozen wasp-sized 1200s, each a meticulous
clockwork of pinhead sensors and cameras. Behind them all, hovering narrow and lethal, were four
Israeli Darts. Jerusalem was feeling insecure. Beyond that, it was more or less a standard mix. He
recognized about twenty different models. There were a few new unidentifiable workhorses obviously
purchased from one of the standard suppliers and included in his entourage for the sake of prestige.

He watched them and, like always, felt a faint shiver at the amount of deadly force arrayed outside his
window. Remember, he told himself, they're like a pack of wild dogs: don't attack and don't run. They'll
kill you if you run.

One more day, he thought. You have to count them one at a time. One more day to be alive.

His room was austere: a room to sleep in, a couch in front of the feed and a kitchenette off to one side.
He could eat, sleep, and watch the world without walking more than five steps. From the outside, his
building was unremarkable: a beige apartment building, slant shadows in the Albuquerque sun. Its chief
distinguishing feature was the cloud of small aircraft, none larger than crows, hovering near his third-floor
window.

It was still February and the predawn weather was crisp when he stepped outside in his running suit.
Tomas kept himself nondescript. He had shaved off his trademark mustache and let his hair grow. He
purchased clothing that imitated the styles of those he saw around him so he could blend in. Tomas even
went so far as to lighten his normally dark skin so that he no longer looked like a mestizo but more like
an upper class Mexican or an Italian. His only distinguishing mark was the cloud of drones that followed
him everywhere he went.

Ah, he thought. Who knows? Someday things could change.

He looked around and rubbed his hands, then started jogging. Some of the drones liked to stay eye level
with him, watching his face--this was a particular feature of the American devices. Americans liked media
and it bled through even into their automated surveillance systems. Other countries didn't care as long as
they were within a specific striking distance from him. He turned off Central Avenue and started on the
trail that led up to San Gabriel Park.

Dawn cracked over the horizon and turned the twilight into sharp-edged day. The sandstone glittered
along the trail and the scrub pine looked as if it had been edged in black.

Coban liked to rest briefly on a particular bench looking down over the Rio Grande. As he rounded a
bend in the trail, he stopped. Someone else was sitting on his habitual bench. Someone with his own
cloud of drones.

He slowed to a walk as he approached the bench. The man on the bench was sitting, fiddling with a cane
and drawing his jacket close around himself. He looked up at Coban. Coban could see the contours and
shapes of his own face looking back at him. Not the same, of course. Their faces had been created