"Charles Stross and Cory Doctorow - Jury Service" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

"Ulp." The djinn shuts up.
"That's better. Now. Breakfast. I want, let's see тАж fried eggs. Bacon rashers. Pork sausages. Toast with butter on it, piles of butter. Don't argue,
I've had a grey-market LDL anti-cholesterol hack. Oh yeah. Black pudding. Tell your little friends in the canteen to have it waiting for me. There
is no 'or else' for you to grasp at, you horrible little robot, you're going to do this my way or you're not going to do very much at all, ever again."
Huw stands up and stretches. A plink with the pinky remote and his bicycle unlocks and stretches too, folding itself into shopping-mall mode.
Memory metal frames are one of the few benefits of high technology, in Huw's opinionтАФalong with the ability to eat seven different flavors of
grease for breakfast and not die of a heart attack before lunchtime.
"Got that?"
"I told them, but they say these Turkish food processors, they don't like working with non-HalalтАФ"
The djinn shuts up at Huw's snarl. Huw picks up the teapot, hangs it from his bike's handle-bars, and pedals off down the hotel corridor with
blood in his eye.
I wonder what my chances are of getting a hanging judge?

┬╖┬╖┬╖┬╖┬╖

Huw pedals to the end of the hotel's drive and hangs a left, following the djinn's directions, rides two more blocks, turns right, and confronts a
wall of humanity.
It's a good, old-fashioned throng. From his vantagepoint atop the saddle, it seems to writhe, a mass of variegated robes and business-attire,
individuals lost in the teem. He studies it for a moment longer, and sees that for all its density it's moving rather quickly, though with little regard
for personal space. He dismounts the bike and it extrudes its kickstand. Planting his hands on his hips, he belches up a haram gust of bacon-
grease and ponders. He can always lock up the bike and proceed afoot, but nothing handy presents itself for locking. The djinn is manifesting a
glowing countdown timer, ticking away the seconds before he will be late at court.
Just then, the crowd shits out a person, who makes a beeline for him.
"Hello, Adrian," Huw says, once the backpacker is within shouting distanceтАФabout sixty centimeters, given the din of footfalls and
conversations. Huw is somehow unsurprised to see the backpacker again, clad in his travelwear and a rakish stubble, eyes red as a baboon's
ass after a night's hashtaking.
"Well, fancy!" says Adrian. "Out for a bit of a ride?"
"No, actually," replies Huw. "On my way somewhere, and running late. Do you think I can ride around this crowd on another street?"
The backpacker snorts. "Sure, if you ride to Tunisia. That's not going to do you much good here, I'm afraid. And don't think about locking it up,
mate, or it'll be nationalized by the Popular Low-Impact Transit Committee before you've gone three steps."
"Shit," grunts Huw. He gestures at the bike and it deflates and compacts itself into a carry-case. He hefts itтАФthe fucking thing weighs a ton.
"Yup," Adrian agrees, cheerily. "Nice to have if you want to go on a tour of the ruins or get somewhere at three A.M.тАФnot much good otherwise,
though. Want to sell it to me? I met a pair of sisters last night who're going to take me off to the countryside for a couple days of indoctrination
and heavy petting. I'd love to have some personal transport."
"Fuck," says Huw. He's had the bike for seven years; it's an old friend, jealously guarded. "How about I rent it to you?"
Adrian grins and produces a smokesaver from one of the many snap-pockets on his chest. A nugget of hash smolders inside the plastic tube, a
barely visible coal in the thick smoke. He puts his mouth over the end and slurps down the smoke, holds it for a thoughtful moment, then expels
it over Huw's head.
"Lovely. I'll return it in two days, three tops. Where're you staying?"
"The fucking Marriott."
"Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Here, will this be enough?" He hands Huw a foil-wrapped brick of Assassin-brand hash, the size of a
paving-stone. "The sisters're into hashishim-revival. Quite versatile minds, they have."
Huw is already copping a light buzz from the sidestream Adrian's blowing his way. This much hash will likely put him in a three-day incontinence
coma. But someone might want it, he supposes. "Tell you what," he says. "Let's call this a deposit. You can have it back for the safe return of
the bike in four days at the Marriott, all right?"
Adrian works his head from side to side. "Sure, mate. Works for me. Shame you don't trust me to return the bike on my own, but that's how it is,
I suppose."
"Okay. But you'd better bloody look after it. That bike has sentimental value, we've come a long way together." Huw whispers into the bike's
handlebars and hands it to Adrian. It interfaces with his PAN, accepts him as its new erstwhile owner, and unfolds. Adrian saddles up, waves
once, and pedals off for points rural and lecherous.