"Ringo, John - Council Wars 1 - There Will Be Dragons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

minutes."
"Thonk 'ou, genie," the boy slurred, sending a mental command to the grav field
holding him suspended. Most people found it easier to interface vocally, since
direct mental interaction required a tremendously disciplined thought process.
But in Herzer's case, his vocal systems had deteriorated so fast that he had
been forced to the disclipine.
The grav field rotated him vertical and he waited until he was sure his legs
would hold him before he released the last tendrils of support. Then he shakily
donned the robe, with the assistance of the genie, and shuffled across the room
to a float-chair.
He collapsed in the chair and let the genie begin the process of feeding him.
His hand shook as he reached for the spoon floating above the bowl and then
started to shake more and more until it was flailing in the air. He sent another
command to a medical program and the recalcitrant hand dropped to his side,
momentarily dead. He hated using the override; he was always unsure if the part
would "restart." But it was better than letting it flail him to death.
At a nod the genie took up the spoon and carefully fed the boy the bland pap.
Some of it, inevitably, dribbled out of his malfunctioning lips but the nannites
scurried across, picking it up and translating it out to be reprocessed.
When the food was done the genie produced a glass of liquid and Herzer carefully
reached for it. This time both his hands were more or less working and he
managed to drink the entire glass of water without spilling much.
"Su'cess," he whispered to himself. "Have 'een any me'ages?"
"No, Master Herzer," the genie replied.
Of course not. If there had been the genie would have told him already. But,
what the hell, no reason not to hope that someone would give a damn if he was
alive.
He sent a command to the chair to lift him to his feet and then another to
clothe him. A loose coverall of black cosilk appeared on his body and he nodded
in satisfaction. If his progressive neurology got much worse he might not even
be able to manage direct neurological controls. What then?
He'd long before come to the conclusion that if that happened he would use his
last commands to take him high in the air, turn off his protection fields and
drop him. One last moment of glorious flight. Some days he wondered why he
hadn't done it already.
But not yet. One more doctor. Maybe this one would be able to do something.
If notЕ
* * *
Paul Bowman pursed his lips and fingered the titanium strip that was his badge
of office as the last members of the council filed into the Chamber.
Bowmam was abnormally short, barely over a meter and a half, and human in
appearance. His age was indeterminate, since the privacy barrier on personal
information was rigidly enforced by the Net, but his black hair was turning to
gray and his skin was beginning to show fine lines. Assuming that he had refused
all longevity Changes, that would make him around three hundred or so years old.
For at least one hundred of those years he had been a member of the Council that
governed the information web of Earth and if he had anything to say about it,
the time had finally come to take his rightful place as its undisputed leader.
Meetings of the Terrestrial Council for Information Strategy and Management
always took place in the Chamber. Given modern technology it was too difficult