"Charles Stross - Trunk and Disorderly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

brain cells.

Boris Kaminski was present of course, boasting in a low-key manner
about how he was going to win the race and buying everyone who
matteredтАФthe other competitors, in other wordsтАФas many drinks as they
would accept. That was his prerogative, for, as the ancients would put it,
thereтАЩs no prize for second place; he wasnтАЩt the only one attempting to
seduce his comrades into suicide through self-indulgence. тАЬWe fly
tomorrow, chaps, and some of us might not be coming back! Crack open
the vaults and sample the finest vintages. Otherwise you may never know....
тАЬBoris always gets a bit like that before a drop, morbidly maudlin in a
gloating kind of way. Besides, itтАЩs a good excuse for draining the cellars,
and BorisтАЩs credit is good for itтАФтАЭKaminskiтАЭ is not his real name but the
name he uses when he wants to be a fabulously rich playboy with none of
the headaches and anxieties that go with his rank. This evening he was
attired in an outrageous outfit modeled on something Tsar Putin the First
might have worn when presiding over an acid rave in the barbaric dark ages
before the re-enlightenment. HeтАЩd probably found it in the back of his big
brotherтАЩs wardrobe.

тАЬWe know you only want to get us drunk so you can take unfair
advantage of us,тАЭ joshed Tolly Forsyth, raising his glass of Chateau !Kung,
тАЬbut I say letтАЩs drink a toast to you! Feet cold and bottoms down.тАЭ

тАЬGlug glug,тАЭ buzzed Toadsworth, raising a glass with his telescoping
sink-plunger thingie. Glasses were ceremoniously drained. (At least, thatтАЩs
what I think he saidтАФhis English is rather sadly deficient, and one of the
rules of the club is: no neural prostheses past the door. Which makes it a
bit dashed hard when youтАЩre dealing with fellows who canтАЩt tell a fuck from a
frapp├й I can tell you, like some high-bandwidth clankie heirs, but thatтАЩs what
you get for missing out on a proper classical education, undead languages
and all, say I.) Goblets were ceremonially drained in a libation to the
forthcoming toast race.

тАЬItтАЩs perfectly all right to get me drunk,тАЭ said Marmaduke Bott, his
monocle flashing with the ruby fire of antique stock-market ticker displays:
тАЬIтАЩm sure I wonтАЩt win, anyway! IтАЩm sitting this one out in the bleachers.тАЭ

тАЬDrink is good,тАЭ agreed Edgestar Wolfblack, injecting some kind of
hideously fulminating fluorocarbon lubricant into one of his six knees. Most
of us in the club are squishies, but Toadsworth and Edgestar are both
clankies. However, while the ToadsterтАЩs knobbly conical exterior conceals
whatтАЩs left of his old squisher body, tucked decently away inside his
eye-turret, Edgestar has gone the whole hog and uploaded himself into a
ceramic exoskeleton with eight or nine highly specialized limbs. He looks
like the bastard offspring of a multi-tool and a mangabot. тАЬCarbon is the
newтАФтАЭ his massively armored eyebrows furrowedтАФтАЭblack?тАЭ HeтАЩs a nice
enough chappie and he went to the right school, but he was definitely at the
back of the queue the day they were handing the cortical upgrades out.
 тАЬAnother wee dram for me,тАЭ I requested, holding out my snifter for a