"Mary Rosenblum - Breeze from the Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenblum Mary)

BREEZE FROM THE STARS
by Mary Rosenblum

Mary Rosenblum has published SF novels and short stories since 1990. She
has been a Hugo nominee and a winner of the Compton Crook Award. Mary
lives and writes on country acreage where she also trains dogs. Her novels,
Horizons from Tor Books and Water Rites from Fairwood Press, were
released this past year. You can find out more about her books at her website
[www.maryrosenblum.com]. In her new tale for us, she shows us what it
might be like to direct space traffic while experiencing the...
****
Everybody in the graduating class went to The Hole where the working jocks hung
out, up high near the hub on the NYUp orbital to celebrate ... or gripe ... when the
rock jock postings went up. Sanya and Jorges got drunk fast, they had no tolerance
to anything, and were already hooting and pushing each other around in the
near-micro-g of the tiny bar. TheyтАЩd been posted as new members of NYUpтАЩs elite
Team One. Well, they had the reflexes of rock jocks, all right. But so did he. Jeri
huddled back in the shadows, nursing a beer flavored with raspberries from the hub
gardens. Up this high, where no tourists wandered, the walls were curved, no
corners, and if you pushed a bit, you could bounce off the ceiling in the marginal
gravity. The beer seemed to rise up into his head instead of going down and he felt
drunk even after just half a bag. Not giddy, just a little disconnected from reality.
He sure wasnтАЩt celebrating. WasnтАЩt sure why the hell heтАЩd come. Jeri sucked
another mouthful of bitter raspberry brew from the bag.
тАЬYour face says washed out.тАЭ A tall rock jock with tawny skin and a lot of
fiber light tattoo-work drifted over. тАЬBut the wash-outs do their cryinтАЩ over in the
Blue Moon.тАЭ She put a decorated arm over his shoulder, breathed beer in his face.
тАЬWhat happened? You get posted to New Singapore and you hate Islam?тАЭ
He thought about shoving her arm off, didnтАЩt. Each tattoo meant a hit. He
studied an emerald green Celtic knot, wondering what it meant. She might have taken
out a piece of junk ... a floater, a danger to the orbital platforms or the traffic
between. It might have been a rock coming in. Might have been a pirate raider
carrying serious hardware. Rock jocks whacked whatever the dispatchers sent тАШem
to.
тАЬI could take your mind off your bad post. Hey, youтАЩll feel better when
youтАЩre out hottinтАЩ after a rock anyway.тАЭ
тАЬYeah.тАЭ He didnтАЩt look at her. тАЬOnly they stuck me with a dispatch dock.
Why? I had the best hit record in our class.тАЭ
тАЬDispatch?тАЭ The arm withdrew. тАЬThey donтАЩt train jocks and put тАШem on the
cans to dispatch.тАЭ
 тАЬGood.тАЭ He drained the last of his beer. тАЬGo tell Delfinio that, will you?тАЭ
тАЬDelfinio? That Dispatch.тАЭ Her tone capitalized it and made him look up,
finally. She was nodding.
тАЬWhenтАЩs your birthday, kid?тАЭ
тАЬHuh?тАЭ
тАЬLet me guess ... somewhere between November 30 and December 17, right?тАЭ
тАЬYeah. December 5, so what?тАЭ He stared at her, waiting for the punch line.
тАЬYouтАЩre an Ophiuchus. Like a Cancer or Aries, you know? The woo-woo
zodiac thing. Only itтАЩs some weird thirteenth house.тАЭ
He didnтАЩt get it, kept his face still, not gonna help her to trip him into the