"Michael Swanwick - Trojan Horse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

The workboard warned her that the interfacing program was about to be shut off. Her fingers danced
across the board, damping down reactions, putting the labs to bed. The wetware went quiescent.



With a shiver, Elin was herself again. She grabbed a towel and wiped off her facepaint. Then she leaned
back and transluced the wall-her replacement was late. Corporation regs gave her fifty percent of his
missed-time fines if she turned him in. It was easy money, and so she waited.



Stretching, she felt the gold wetware wires dangling from the back of her skull. She lazily put off yanking
them.



Earth bloomed underfoot, slowly crept upward. New De-troit and New Chicago rose from the floor.
Bright industrial satellites gleamed to every side of the twin residential cylinders.



A bit of motion caught Elin's eye, and she swiveled to follow a load of cargo drifting by. It was a jumble
of containers lashed together by nonmagnetic tape and shot into an orbit calculated to avoid the laser
cables and power transmission beams that interlaced the park.



A man was riding the cargo, feet braced against a green carton, hauling on a rope slipped through the
lashings. He saw her and waved. She could imagine his grin through the mirrored helmet.



The old Elin snorted disdainfully. She started to look away and almost missed seeing it happen.



In leaning back that fraction more, the cargo hopper had put too much strain on the lashings. A faulty
rivet popped, and the cargo began to slide. Brightly colored cartons drifted apart, and the man went
tumbling, end over end, away.



One end of the lashing was still connected to the anchor carton, and the free end writhed like a wounded
snake. A bright bit of metal-the failed rivet-broke free and flew toward the juncture of the wheel lab's
hub and spokes.